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HARPER'S 

BLACK  &WHITE 

SERIES 


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JOHN   O.   WHITTIEK 
i  a  photograph  taken  in  July,  1885 


WHITTIER 

NOTES   OF  HIS   LIFE   AND   OF  HIS 
FRIENDSHIPS 


MRS.  JAMES  T.  FIELDS 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW    YORK 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 


,x 


\        1 

1 


Harper'^;/  Black  :a©d:White''  Series. 

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WHITTIER  :     NOTES    OF    HIS    LIFE    AND    OF    HIS 
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SEEN     FROM     THE     SADDLE.       By    ISA    CARRINGTQN 

CABELL. 
A  FAMILY  CANOE  TRIP.     By   FLORENCE  WAITERS 

SNEDEKER. 
A     LITTLE     SWISS     SOJOURN.      By    WILLIAM     DEAN 

HOWELLS. 
A  LETTER  OF  INTRODUCTION.    A  Farce.    By  WILLIAM 

DEAN  HOWELLS. 
JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL.     An  Address.     By  GEORGE 

WILLIAM  CURTIS. 
IN  THE  VESTIBULE  LIMITED.    By  BRANDER  MAT 

THEWS. 

THE   ALBANY   DEPOT.     A   Farce.     By  WILLIAM   DEAN 
HOWELLS.  _ 

PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  of  -will  be  sent  by  the  publishers, 
postage  prepaid,  on  receipt  of  price, 


Copyright,  1893,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


As 


JOHN  G.  WHITTIER 

From  a  photograph  taken  in  July,  1885 Frontispiece 

HOME  AT  AMESBURY Faces  p.     6 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIER  AT  FORTY -FIVE  YEARS  OF  AGE   .  "32 

WHITTIER  IN    HIS   STUDY "        42 

LAWN  AT  OAK   KNOLL,  DANVERS "        64 

THE     HOUSE     AT     HAMPTON     FALLS — WHITTIER    ON 

THE    BALCONY "        72 

VIEW  FROM  WHITTIER '3  WINDOW,  HAMPTON  FALLS   .  "90 


"The  poet  of  New  England.  His  genius 
drew  its  nourishment  from  her  soil ;  his  pages 
are  a  mirror  of  her  outward  nature,  and  the 
strong  utterance  of  her  in  ward  life." 

FRANCIS  PARKMAN. 

"  We  already  see,  and  the  future  will  see  it 
more  clearly,  that  no  party  ever  did  a  vaster 
work  than  his  party;  that  he,  like  Hampden 
and  Milton,  is  a  character  not  produced  in 
common  times."  E.  C.  STEDMAN. 


WIIITTIER 

NOTES  OF  HIS  LIFE  AND  OF  HIS  FRIENDSHIPS 


THE  figure  of  the  Quaker  poet,  as  he 
stood  before  the  world,  was  unlike  that  of 
any  other  prominent  figure  which  has 
walked  across  the  stage  of  life.  This  may 
he  said,  of  course,  of  every  individual;  yet 
the  liken  esses  bet  wee  ri  men  of  a  given  era, 
orhetvveen  modern  men  of  strong  charac 
ter  and  those  of  the  ancient  world,  cause  us 
sometimes  to  exclaim  with  wonder  at  the 
evident  repetitions  in  development.  One 
can  hardly  walk  through  the  galleries  of 
antique  statues,  nor  read  the  passages  of 
Plutarch  or  Thucydides,  without  finding 
this  idea  thrust  upon  the  mind.  But  with 
regard  to  Whittier,  such  comparisons  were 
i 


» liefer  nlade,  even  in  fancy.  His  lithe,  up 
right  form,  full  of  quick  movement,  his 
burning  eye,  his  keen  wit,  bore  witness 
to  a  contrast  in  himself  with  the  staid, 
controlled  manner  and  the  habit  of  the 
sect  into  which  he  was  born.  The  love 
and  devotion  with  which  he  adhered  to 
the  Quaker  Church  and  doctrines  served 
to  accentuate  his  unlikeness  to  the  men 
of  his  time,  because  he  early  became  also 
one  of  the  most  determined  contestants 
in  one  of  the  sternest  combats  which  the 
world  has  witnessed. 

Neither  in  the  ranks  of  poets  nor  divines 
nor  philosophers  do  we  find  his  counter 
part.  He  felt  a  certain  brotherhood  with 
Robert  Burns,  and  early  loved  his  genius; 
but  where  were  two  men  more  unlike  ? 
A  kind  of  solitude  of  life  and  experience, 
greater  than  that  which  usually  throws 
its  shadow  on  the  human  soul,  invested 
him  in  Iris  passage  through  the  world. 
The  refinement  of  his  education,  the  calm 
of  nature  by  which,  in  youth,  he  was  sur- 


rounded,  the  few  books  which  he  made 
his  own,  nearly  all  serious  in  their  char 
acter,  and  the  religious  atmosphere  in 
which  he  was  nurtured,  all  tended  to  form 
an  environment  in  which  knowledge  de 
veloped  into  wisdom,  and  the  fiery  soul 
formed  a  power  to  restrain  or  to  express 
its  force  for  the  good  of  humanity. 

But  as  surely  as  he  was  a  Quaker,  so 
surely  also  did  he  feel  himself  a  part  of 
the  life  of  New  England.  He  believed  in 
the  ideals  of  his  time ;  the  simple  ways  of 
living;  the  eetger  nourishing  of  all  good 
things  by  the  sacrifice  of  many  private 
wishes;  in  short,  he  made  one  cause  with 
Garrison  and  Phillips,  Emerson  and  Low 
ell,  Longfellow  and  Holmes.  His  stand 
ards  were  often  different  from  those  of 
his  friends,  but  their  ideals  were  on  the 
whole  made  in  common. 

His  friends  were  to  Whittier,  more  than 
to  most  men,  an  unfailing  source  of  daily 
happiness  and  gratitude.  With  the  ad 
vance  of  years,  and  the  death  of  his  un- 


married  sister,  his  friends  became  all  in 
all  to  him.  They  were  his  mother,  his 
sister,  and  his  brother  ;  but  in  a  certain 
sense  they  were  always  friends  of  the 
imagination.  He  saw  some  of  them  only 
at  rare  intervals,  and  sustained  his  rela 
tions  with  them  chiefly  in  his  hurried 
correspondence.  He  never  suffered  him 
self  to  complain  of  what  they  were  not; 
but  what  they  were,  in  loyalty  to  chosen 
aims,  and  in  their  affection  for  him,  was 
an  unending  source  of  pleasure.  With 
the  shortcomings  of  others  he  dealt  gen 
tly,  having  too  many  shortcomings  of  his 
own,  as  he  was  accustomed  to  say,  with 
true  humility.  He  did  not,  however, 
look  upon  the  failings  of  his  friends  with 
indifferent  eyes.  "How  strange  it  is!" 
he  once  said.  "We  see  those  whom  we 
love  going  to  the  very  verge  of  the  preci 
pice  of  self-destruction,  yet  it  is  not  in 
our  power  to  hold  them  back !" 

A  life  of  invalidism  made  consecutive 
labor  of  any  kind  an  impossibility.     For 


years  lie  was  only  able  to  write  for  half 
an  hour  or  less,  without  stopping  to  rest, 
and  these  precious  moments  were  devoted 
to  some  poem  or  other  work  for  the  press, 
which  was  almost  his  only  source  of 
income.  His  letters  suffered,  from  a  lit 
erary  point  of  view;  but  they  were  none 
the  less  delightful  to  his  friends;  to  the 
world  of  literature  they  are  perhaps  less 
important  than  those  of  most  men  who 
have  achieved  a  high  place. 

Whittier  was  between  twenty  and 
thirty  years  of  age  when  his  family  left 
the  little  farm  near  Haverhill,  where  he 
was  born,  and  moved  into  the  town  of 
Amesbury,  eight  miles  distant.  Long  be 
fore  that  period  he  had  identified  himself 
with  the  antislavery  cause,  and  had  visit 
ed,  in  the  course  of  his  ceaseless  labors 
for  the  slaves,  New  York,  Philadelphia, 
and  Washington.  These  brief  journeys 
bounded  his  travels  in  this  world. 

In  the  year  1843  he  wrote  anxiously  to 


his  publisher,  Mr.  Fields,  "I  send  with 
this  '  The  Exiles,'  a  kind  of  John.  Gilpin 
legend.  I  am  in  doubt  about  it.  Eead  it, 
and  decide  for  thyself  whether  it  is  worth 
printing." 

He  began  at  this  rather  late  period  (he 
was  then  thirty -six  years  old)  to  feel  a 
touch  of  satisfaction  in  his  comparatively 
new  occupation  of  writing  poetry,  and  to 
speak  of  it  without  reserve  to  his  chosen 
friends.  His  poems  were  then  beginning 
to  bring  him  into  personal  relation  with 
the  reading  world.  Many  years  later, 
when  speaking  of  the  newspaper  writing 
which  absorbed  his  earlier  life,  he  said 
that  he  had  written  a  vast  amount  for  the 
press;  he  thought  that  his  work  would 
fill  nearly  ten  octavo  volumes  ;  but  he 
had  grown  utterly  weary  of  throwing  so 
much  out  into  space  from  which  no  re 
sponse  ever  came  back  to  him.  At  length 
he  decided  to  put  it  all  aside,  discovering 
that  a  power  lay  in  him  for  more  con 
genial  labors. 


From  the  moment  of  the  publication 
of  his  second  volume  of  poems,  Whit- 
tier  felt  himself  fairly  launched  upon  a 
new  career,  and  seemed  to  stand  with  a 
responsive  audience  before  him.  The 
poems  "  Toussaint  L'Ouverture,"  "The 
Slave-ships,"  and  others  belonging  to  the 
same  period,  followed  in  quick  succession. 
Sometimes  they  took  the  form  of  appeal, 
sometimes  of  sympathy,  and  again  they 
are  prophetic  or  dramatic.  He  hears  the 
slave  mother  weep  : 

"Gone — gone — sold  and  gone 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters — 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters !" 

Such  voices  could  not  be  silenced. 
Though  men  might  turn  away  and  re 
fuse  to  read  or  to  listen,  the  music  once 
uttered  rang  out  into  the  common  air, 
and  would  not  die. 

A  homely  native  wit  pointed  Whittier's 
familiar  correspondence.  Writing  in  1849, 


while  revising-  his  volume  for  publication, 
he  speaks  of  one  of  his  poems  as  "that 
rascally  old  ballad  *  Kathleen,'  "  and  adds 
that  it  "  wants  something,  though  it  is  al 
ready  too  long."  He  adds:  "The  weather 
this  morning  is  cold  enough  for  an  Es 
quimau  purgatory  —  terrible.  What  did 
the  old  Pilgrims  mean  by  coming  here?" 

With  the  years  his  friendship  with  his 
publisher  became  more  intimate.  In  writ 
ing  him  he  often  indulged  his  humor  for 
fun  and  banter:  "Bachelor  as  I  am,  I 
congratulate  thee  on  thy  escape  from 
single  (misery !)  blessedness.  It  is  the 
very  wisest  thing  thee  ever  did.  Were 
I  autocrat,  I  would  see  to  it  that  every 
young  man  over  twenty-five  and  every 
young  woman  over  twenty  was  mar 
ried  without  delay.  Perhaps,  on  second 
thought,  it  might  be  wrell  to  keep  one  old 
maid  and  one  old  bachelor  in  each  town, 
by  way  of  warning,  just  as  the  Spartans 
did  their  drunken  helots." 

Discussing  the  question  of  some  of  his 


"bad  rhymes,"  and  what  to  do  about 
them,  he  wrote  once:  "I  heartily  thank 
thee  for  thy  suggestions.  Let  me  have 
more  of  them.  I  had  a  hearty  laugh  at 
thy  hint  of  the  '  carnal '  bearing  of  one 
of  my  lines.  It  is  now  simply  rural.  I 
might  have  made  some  other  needful 
changes  had  I  not  been  suffering  with 
headache  all  day." 

Occasionally  the  fire  which  burned  in 
him  would  flame  out,  as  when  he  writes 
in  1851:  "So  your  Union-tinkers  have 
really  caught  a  '  nigger1  at  last!  A  very 
pretty  and  refreshing  sight  it  must  have 
been  to  Sabbath-going  Christians  yester 
day — that  chained  court-house  of  yours. 
And  Bunker  Hill  Monument  looking 
down  upon  all!  But  the  matter  is  too 
sad  for  irony.  God  forgive  the  misera 
ble  politicians  who  gamble  for  office  with 
dice  loaded  with  human  hearts !" 

From  time  to  time,  also,  we  find  him 
expressing  his  literary  opinions,  eagerly 
and  simply  as  friend  may  talk  with  friend, 


and  without  aspiring  to  literary  judgment. 
"  Thoreau's  'Walden'  is  capital  reading, 
but  very  wicked  and  heathenish.  The 
practical  moral  of  it  seems  to  be  that  if 
a  man  is  willing  to  sink  himself  into  a 
woodchuck  he  can  live  as  cheaply  as  that 
quadruped ;  but,  after  all,  for  me,  I  prefer 
walking  on  two  legs." 

It  would  be  unjust  to  Whittier  to  quote 
this  talk  on  paper  as  his  final  opinion, 
upon  Thoreau,  for  he  afterwards  read  ev 
erything  he  wrote,  and  was  a  warm  ap- 
preciator  of  bis  work. 

His  enthusiasm  for  books  and  for  the 
writers  of  books  never  faded.  "What 
do  we  not  all  owe  you,"  he  writes  Mr. 
Fields,  "for  your  edition  of  De  Tocque- 
ville  !  It  is  one  of  the  best  books  of  the 
century.  Tbanks,  too,  for  Allingham's 
poems.  After  Tennyson,  he  is  rny  favor 
ite  among  modern  British  poets." 

And  again:  "I  have  just  read  Long 
fellow's  introduction  to  his  *  Tales  of 
the  Inn'  —  a  splendid  piece  of  painting! 


Neither  Boccaccio  nor  Chaucer  has  done 
better.  Who  wrote  'A  Loyal  Woman's 
No  ?'  Was  it  Lucy  Larcom?  I  thought 
it  might  be." 

In  1866  he  says:  ''  I  am  glad  to  see  'Ho- 
sea  Biglow  '  in  book  form.  It  is  a  grand 
book  —  the  best  of  its  kind  for  the  last 
half-century  or  more.  It  has  wit  enough 
to  make  the  reputation  of  a  dozen  Eng 
lish  satirists." 

This  appreciation  of  his  contempora 
ries  was  a  strong  feature  of  his  charac 
ter.  His  sympathy  with  the  difficulties 
of  a  literary  life,  particularly  for  women, 
was  very  keen.  There  seem  to  be  few 
wromen  writers  of  his  time  who  have 
failed  to  receive  from  his  pen  some  token 
of  recognition.  Of  Edith  Thomas  he 
once  said  in  one  of  his  notelets,  "She 
has  a  divine  gift,  and  her  first  book  is 
more  than  a  promise— an  assurance."  Of 
Sarah  Orne  Jewett  he  was  fond  as  of  a 
daughter,  and  from  their  earliest  ac 
quaintance  his  letters  are  filled  with  ap- 


12 


preciation  of  her  stories.  "I  do  not 
wonder,"  he  wrote  one  day,  "that  'The 
Luck  of  the  Bogans '  is  attractive  to  the 
Irish  folks,  and  to  everybody  else.  It  is 
a  very  successful  departure  from  New 
England  life  and  scenery,  and  shows  that 
Sarah  is  as  much  at  home  in  Ireland  and 
on  the  Carolina  Sea  Islands  as  in  Maine 
or  Massachusetts.  I  am  very  proud  that 
I  was  one  of  the  first  to  discover  her." 
This  predisposition  to  think  well  of  the 
work  of  others  gave  him  the  happy  op 
portunity  in  more  than  one  instance  of 
bringing  authors  of  real  talent  before  the 
public  who  might  otherwise  have  waited 
long  for  general  recognition. 

This  was  especially  the  case  with  one 
of  our  best  beloved  New  England  writers, 
Lucy  Larcom.  As  early  as  1853  he 
wrote  a  letter  to  his  publisher  intro 
ducing  her  work  to  his  notice.  u  I  en 
close,"  he  says,  "  what  I  regard  as  a  very 
unique  and  beautiful  little  book  in  MS. 
I  don't  wish  thee  to  take  my  opinion,  but 


the  first  leisure  hour  thee  have,  read  it, 
and  I  am  sure  thee  will  decide  that  it  is 
exactly  the  thing  for  publication.  .  .  .  The 
little  prose  poems  are  unlike  anything  in 
our  literature,  and  remind  me  of  the  Ger 
man  writer  Lessing.  They  are  equally 
adapted  to  young  and  old.  ...  The  author, 
Lucy  Larcom,  of  Beverly,  is  a  novice  in 
writing  and  book -making,  and  with  no 
ambition  to  appear  in  print,  and  were  I 
not  perfectly  certain  that  her  little  col 
lection  is  worthy  of  type,  I  would  be  the 
last  to  encourage  her  to  take  even  this 
small  step  to  publicity.  Eead  '  The  Im 
pression  of  Rain-drops,'  'The  Steamboat 
and  Niagara,'  'The  Laughing  Water,' 
'My  Father's  House,'  etc." 

He  thus  early  became  the  foster-father 
of  Lucy  Larcom's  children  of  the  brain, 
and,  what  was  far  more  to  her,  a  life-long 
friend,  adviser,  and  supporter. 

One  of  his  most  intimate  personal 
friends  for  many  years  was  Lydia  Maria 
Child.  Beginning  in  the  earliest  days  of 


u 


tlie  antislavery  struggle,  their  friendship 
lasted  into  the  late  and  peaceful  sunset 
of  their  days.  As  Mrs.  Child  advanced 
in  years,  it  was  her  custom  in  the  winter 
to  leave  her  cottage  at  Wayland  for  a 
few  months  and  to  take  lodgings  in  Bos 
ton.  The  dignity  and  independence  of 
Mrs.  Child's  character  were  so  great  that 
she  knew  her  friends  would  find  her 
wherever  she  might  live,  and  her  desire 
to  help  on  the  good  work  of  the  world 
led  her  to  practise  the  most  austere  econ 
omies.  Therefore,  instead  of  finding  a 
comfortable  boarding -place,  which  she 
might  well  have  excused  herself  for  doing 
at  her  advanced  age  of  eighty  years,  she 
took  rooms  in  a  very  plain  little  house  in 
a  remote  quarter  of  the  city,  and  went  by 
the  street-cars  daily  to  the  north  end,  to 
get  her  dinner  at  a  restaurant  which  she 
had  discovered  as  being  clean,  and  hav 
ing  wholesome  food  at  the  very  lowest 
prices.  This  enabled  her  to  give  away 
sums  which  were  surprisingly  large  to 


those  who  knew  her  income.  Wendell 
Phillips,  who  had  always  taken  charge 
of  her  affairs,  said  to  me  at  the  time  of 
her  death  that  when  the  negroes  made 
their  flight  into  Kansas,  Mrs.  Child  came 
in  as  soon  as  the  news  arrived  and  asked 
him  to  forward  fifty  dollars  for  their  as 
sistance. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  cannot  afford  to  send 
that  sum  just  now,"  said  Mr.  Phillips. 
"Perhaps  you  will  do  well  to  think  it 
over." 

"So  I  will,"  said  Mrs.  Child,  and  de 
parted. 

In  the  course  of  the  day  he  received  a 
note  from  her,  saying  she  had  made  a 
mistake.  It  was  one  hundred  dollars 
that  she  wished  to  send. 

Mrs.  Child's  chief  pleasure  in  coming 
to  town  was  the  opportunity  she  found 
of  seeing  her  friends.  Whittier  always 
sought  her  out,  and  their  meetings  at  the 
houses  of  their  mutual  cronies  were  fes 
tivals  indeed.  They  would  sit  side  by  side, 


16 


while  memories  crowded  up  and  filled 
their  faces  with  a  tenderness  they  could 
not  express  in  words.  As  they  told  their 
tales  and  made  merry,  they  would  sit 
with  their  hands  on  each  other's  knees, 
and  with  glances  in  which  tears  and 
laughter  were  closely  intermingled. 

u  It  was  good  to  see  Mrs.  Child,"  some 
one  remarked,  after  one  of  those  inter 
views. 

1  'Yes,"  said  Whittier,  "Lyddy's  bun- 
nets  aren't  always  in  the  fashion  "  (with 
a  quaint  look,  as  much  as  to  say,  "I  won 
der  what  you  think  of  anything  so  bad  "), 
"  but  we  don't  like  her  any  the  worse 
for  that." 

Shortly  after  Mrs.  Child's  death  he 
wrote  from  Amesbury:  "My  heart  has 
been  heavy  ever  since  I  heard  of  dear 
Maria  Child's  death.  The  true,  noble, 
loving  soul!  Where  is  she?  What  is 
she?  How  is  she  ?  The  moral  and  spir 
itual  economy  of  God  will  not  suffer 
such  light  and  love  to  be  lost  in  blank 


IT 


annihilation.  She  was  herself  an  evi 
dence  of  immortality.  In  a  letter  writ 
ten  to  me  at  seventy  years  of  age  she 
said:  'The  older  I  grow  the  more  I  am 
awe-struck  (not  frightened,  but  awed)  by 
the  great  mystery  of  an  existence  here 
and  hereafter.  No  thinking  can  solve  the 
problem.  Infinite  wisdom  has  purposely 
sealed  it  from  our  eyes.'  " 

There  was  never  a  moment  of  Whit- 
tier's  life  when,  prostrated  by  illness,  or 
overwhelmed  by  private  sorrows,  or  re 
moved  from  the  haunts  of  men,  he  forgot 
to  take  a  living  interest  in  public  affairs, 
and  to  study  closely  the  characteristics 
and  works  of  the  men  who  were  our  gov 
ernors.  He  understood  the  characters  of 
our  public  officers  as  if  he  had  lived  with 
them  continually,  and  his  quick  appre 
hension  with  regard  to  their  movements 
was  something  most  unusual.  De  Quin- 
cey,  we  remember,  surprised  his  American 
friends  by  taking  their  hands,  as  it  were, 
and  showing  them  about  Boston,  so  fa- 


18 


miliar  was  he  with  our  localities.  Whit- 
tier  could  sit  down  with  politicians,  and 
easily  prove  himself  the  better  man  on 
contested  questions.  In  1861  he  wrote: 

"  Our  government  needs  more  wisdom 
.than  it  has  thus  far  had  credit  for  to  sus 
tain  the  national  honor  and  avert  a  war 
with  England.  What  a  pity  that  Welles 
indorsed  the  act  of  Wilkes  in  his  report! 
Why  couldn't  we  have  been  satisfied 
with  the  thing  without  making  such  a 
cackling  over  it?  Apologies  are  cheap, 
and  we  could  afford  to  make  a  very  hand 
some  one  in  this  case.  A  war  with  Eng 
land  would  ruin  us.  It  is  too  monstrous 
to  think  of.  May  God  in  His  mercy  save 
us  from  it !" 

In  1862  and  '63  Whittier  was  in  fre 
quent  correspondence  with  Mr.  Fields. 
Poems  suggested  by  the  stirring  times 
were  crowding  thick  upon  his  mind. 
"  It  is  a  great  thing  to  live  in  these  days. 
I  am  thankful  for  what  I  have  lived  to 
see  and  hear,"  he  says.  "  There  is  noth- 


19 


ing  for  us  but  the  old  Methodist  ejacula 
tion,  'Glory  to  God!'" 

The  volume  entitled  "In  War-time  "  ap 
peared  at  this  period,  though,  as  usual,  he 
seems  to  have  had  little  strength  and 
spirit  for  the  revision  of  his  poems.  For 
this,  however  unwillingly,  he  would  often 
throw  himself  upon  the  kindness  of  his 
friend  and  publisher. 

In  writing  to  ask  some  consideration  for 
the  manuscript  of  an  unknown  lady  dur 
ing  this  year,  he  adds:  "  I  ought  to  have 
sent  to  you  about  this  lady's  MS.  long  ago, 
but  the  fact  is,  I  hate  to  bother  you  with 
such  matters.  I  am  more  and  more  im 
pressed  with  the  Christian  tolerance  and 
patience  of  publishers,  beset  as  you  are 
with  legions  of  clamorous  authors,  male 
and  female.  I  should  think  you  would 
hate  the  very  sight  of  one  of  these  import- 
unates.  After  all,  Fields,  let  us  own  the 
truth :  writing  folks  are  bores.  How  few 
of  us  (let  them  say  what  they  will  of  our 
genius)  have  any  common-sense!  I  take 


it  that  it  is  the  Providential  business  of 
authors  and  publishers  to  torment  each 
other." 

These  little  friendly  touches  in  his  cor 
respondence  .show  us  the  man  far  more 
distinctly  than  many  pages  of  writing1 
about  him.  Some  one  has  said  that  Whit- 
tier's  epistolary  style  was  perfect.  Doubt 
less  he  could  write  as  good  a  letter  on  oc 
casion  as  any  man  who  ever  lived,  but  he 
sustained  no  such  correspondence.  His 
notes  and  letters  were  homely  and  affec 
tionate,  with  the  delightful  carelessness 
possible  in  the  talk  of  intimate  friends. 
They  present  no  ordinary  picture  of  hu 
man  tenderness,  devotion,  and  charity, 
and  these  qualities  gain  a  wonderful  beau 
ty  when  we  remember  that  they  come 
from  the  same  spirit  which  cried  out  with 
Ezekiel : 

"  The  burden  of  a  prophet's  power 
Fell  on  me  in  that  fearful  hour; 
From  off  unutterable  woes 
The  curtain  of  the  future  rose ; 


21 


I  saw  far  down  the  coming  time 

The  fiery  chastisement  of  crime ; 

With  noise  of  mingling  hosts,  and  jar 

Of  falling  towers  and  shouts  of  war, 

I  saw  the  nations  rise  and  fall 

Like  fire-gleams  on  my  tent's  white  wall." 

"  The  fire  and  fury  of  the  brain  "  were 
his  indeed;  a  spirit  was  in  him  to  redeem 
the  land ;  he  was  one  of  God's  interpret 
ers  ;  but  there  was  also  the  tenderness  of 
divine  humanity,  the  love  and  patience  of 
those  who  dwell  in  the  courts  of  the  Lord. 

Whittier's  sister  Elizabeth  was  a  sensi 
tive  woman,  whose  delicate  health  was  a 
constant  source  of  anxiety  to  her  brother, 
especially  after  the  death  of  their  mother, 
when  they  wrere  left  alone  together  in 
the  home  at  Amesbury.  As  one  of  their 
intimate  friends  said,  no  one  could  tell 
which  would  die  first,  but  they  were  each 
so  anxious  about  the  other's  health  that 
it  was  a  question  which  would  wear  away 
into  the  grave  first,  for  the  other's  sake. 

It   was   Whittier's   sad   experience   to 


22 


be  deprived  of  the  companionship  of  all 
those  most  dear  to  him,  and  for  over 
twenty  years  to  live  without  that  intimate 
household  communion  for  the  loss  of 
which  the  world  holds  no  recompense. 
For  several  years,  before  and  after  his 
sister  Elizabeth's  death,  Whittier  wore  the 
look  of  one  who  was  very  ill.  His  large 
dark  eyes  burned  with  peculiar  fire,  and 
contrasted  with  his  pale  brow  and  attenu 
ated  figure.  He  had  a  sorrowful,  stricken 
look,  and  found  it  hard  enough  to  recon^ 
struct  his  life,  missing  the  companionship 
and  care  of  his  sister,  and  her  great  sym 
pathy  with  his  own  literary  work.  There 
was  a  likeness  between  the  two ;  the  same 
speaking  eyes  marked  the  line  from  which 
they  sprang,  and  their  kinship  and  inher 
itance.  Old  New  England  people  were 
quick  to  recognize  "  the  Batchelder  eyes," 
not  only  in  the  Whittiers,  but  in  Daniel 
Webster,  Caleb  Gushing,  Nathaniel  Haw 
thorne,  and  William  Batchelder  Greene, 
a  man  less  widely  known  than  these  dis- 


tinguished  compatriots.  Mr.  Greene  was, 
however,  a  man  of  mark  in  his  own  time, 
a  daring  thinker,  and  one  who  was  pos 
sessed  of  much  brave  originality,  whose 
own  deep  thoughtfulness  was  always 
planting  seeds  of  thought  in  others,  and 
who  can  certainly  never  be  forgotten  by 
those  who  were  fortunate  enough  to  be 
his  friends. 

These  men  of  the  grand  eyes  were  all 
descended  from  a  gifted  old  preacher  of 
great  fame  in  early  colonial  days,  a  man 
of  true  distinction  and  devoted  service,  in 
spite  of  the  dishonor  with  which  he  let 
his  name  be  shadowed  in  his  latest  years. 
It  would  be  most  interesting  to  trace  the 
line  still  further  back  into  the  past,  but 
when  the  Batch  elder  eyes  were  by  any 
chance  referred  to  in  Whittier's  presence, 
he  would  look  shyly  askance,  and  some 
times  speak,  half  with  pride,  half  with  a 
sort  of  humorous  compassion, of  his  Hamp 
ton  ancestor.  The  connection  of  the 
Whittiers  of  Haverhill  with  the  Greenes 


24 


was  somewhat  closer  than  with,  other 
branches  of  the  Batchelder  line.  One 
of  the  poet's  most  entertaining-  reminis 
cences  of  his  boyhood  was  the  story  of  his 
first  visit  to  Boston.  Mr.  William  Greene's 
mother  was  an  interesting  woman  of 
strong,  independent  character  and  wide 
interests,  wonted  to  the  life  of  cities,  and 
one  of  the  first,  in  spite  of  his  boyish  shy 
ness,  to  appreciate  her  young  relative. 
Her  kind  eagerness,  during  one  of  her 
occasional  visits  to  the  Whittiers,  that 
Greenleaf  should  come  to  see  her  when 
he  came  to  Boston,  fell  in  with  his  own 
dreams,  and  a  high  desire  to  see  the  sights 
of  the  great  town. 

One  can  easily  imagine  how  his  imag 
ination  must  have  glorified  the  natural 
expectations  of  a  country  boy,  and  when 
the  time  arrived,  how  the  whole  house 
hold  lent  itself  to  furthering  so  great  an 
expedition.  He  was  not  only  to  have  a 
new  suit  of  clothes,  but  they  were,  for  the 
first  time,  to  be  trimmed  with  "  boughten 


25 


buttons,"  to  the  lad's  complete  satisfac 
tion,  his  mind  being  fixed  upon  those  as 
marking  the  difference  between  town  and 
country  fashions.  When  the  prepara 
tions  were  made,  his  fresh  homespun  cos 
tume,  cut  after  the  best  usage  of  the  So 
ciety  of  Friends,  seemed  to  him  all  that 
heart  could  desire,  and  he  started  away 
bravely  by  the  coach  to  pass  a  week  in 
Boston.  His  mother  had  not  forgotten  to 
warn  him  of  possible  dangers  and  snares; 
it  was  then  that  he  made  her  a  promise 
which,  at  first  from  principle  and  later 
from  sentiment,  he  always  most  sacredly 
kept — that  he  would  not  enter  a  play 
house.  As  he  told  the  story,  it  was  easy 
for  a  listener  to  comprehend  how  many 
good  wishes  flew  after  the  adventurer, 
and  how  much  wild  beating  of  the  heart 
he  himself  experienced  as  the  coach  rolled 
away;  how  bewildering  the  city  streets 
appeared  when  he  found  himself  at  the 
brief  journey's  end.  After  he  had  re 
ported  himself  to  Mrs.  Greene,  and  been 


26 


received  with  most  affectionate  hospitali 
ty,  and  had  promised  to  reappear  at  tea- 
time,  he  sallied  forth  to  the  great  business 
of  sight-seeing. 

"  I  wandered  up  and  down  the  streets," 
he  used  to  say.  "Somehow  it  wasn't 
just  what  I  expected,  and  the  crowd  was 
worse  and  worse  after  I  got  into  Wash 
ington  Street;  and  when  I  got  tired  of 
being  jostled,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  the 
folks  might  get  by  if  I  waited  a  little 
while.  Some  of  them  looked  at  me,  and 
so  I  stepped  into  an  alleyway  and  waited 
and  looked  out.  Sometimes  there  didn't 
seem  to  be  so  many  passing,  and  I  thought 
of  starting,  and  then  they'd  begin  again. 
'Twas  a  terrible  stream  of  people  to  me. 
I  began  to  think  my  new  clothes  and  the 
buttons  were  all  thrown  away.  I  stayed 
there  a  good  while."  (This  was  said  with 
great  amusement.)  u  I  began  to  be  home 
sick.  I  thought  it  made  no  difference  at 
all  about  my  having  those  boughten  but 
tons." 


27 


How  long  lie  waited,  or  what  great 
thoughts  may  have  come  from  this  first 
glimpse  at  the  ceaseless  procession  of  hu 
manity,  who  can  say?  But  there  was  a 
sequel  to  the  tale.  He  was  invited  to  re 
turn  to  Mrs.  Greene's  to  drink  tea  and 
meet  a  company  of  her  guests.  Among 
them  were  some  ladies  who  were  very 
gay  and  friendly;  we  can  imagine  that 
they  were  attracted  by  the  handsome  eyes 
and  quaint  garb  of  the  young  Friend,  and 
by  his  quick  wit  and  homely  turns  of 
speech,  all  the  more  amusing  for  a  rustic 
flavor.  They  tried  to  tease  him  a  little, 
but  they  must  have  quickly  found  their 
match  in  drollery,  while  the  lad  was  al 
ready  a  citizen  of  the  commonwealth  of 
books.  No  doubt  the  stimulus  of  such  a 
social  occasion  brought  him,  as  well  as 
the  strangers,  into  new  acquaintance  with 
his  growing  gifts.  But  presently  one  of 
the  ladies,  evidently  the  favorite  until 
this  shocking  moment,  began  to  speak  of 
the  theatre,  and  asked  for  the  pleasure  of 


23 


his  presence  at  the  play  that  very  night, 
she  herself  being  the  leading  player.  At 
this  disclosure,  and  the  frank  talk  of  the 
rest  of  the  company,  their  evident  interest 
in  the  stage,  and  regard  for  a  young  per 
son  who  had  chosen  such  a  profession,  the 
young  Quaker  lad  was  stricken  with  hor 
ror.  In  after-years  he  could  only  remem 
ber  it  with  amusement,  but  that  night 
his  mother's  anxious  warnings  rang  in  his 
ears,  and  he  hastened  to  escape  from  such 
a  snare.  Somehow  this  pleasant  young 
companion  of  the  tea-party  hardly  repre 
sented  the  wickedness  of  playhouses  as 
Puritan  New  England  loved  to  picture 
them;  but  between  a  sense  of  disappoint 
ment  and  homesickness  and  general  in 
security,  he  could  not  sleep,  and  next 
morning  when  the  early  stage-coach  start 
ed  forth,  it  carried  him  as  passenger.  He 
said  nothing  to  his  amazed  family  of  the 
alarming  episode  of  the  playing- worn  an, 
nor  of  his  deep  consciousness  of  the  home 
made  clothes,  but  he  no  doubt  reflected 


much  upon  this  Boston  visit  in  the  leisure 
of  the  silent  fields  and  hills. 

It  is  impossible  to  convey  to  those  who 
never  saw  Mr.  Whittier,  the  charm  of  his 
gift  of  story -telling1;  the  exactness  and 
simplicity  of  his  reminiscences  were  fla 
vored  by  his  poetical  insight  and  dramatic 
representation.  It  was  a  wonderful  thing 
to  hear  him  rehearse  in  the  twilight  the 
scenes  of  his  youth,  and  the  figures  that 
came  and  went  in  that  small  world;  the 
pathos  and  humor  of  his  speech  can  never 
be  exceeded ;  and  there  can  never  be  again 
so  complete  a  linking  of  the  ancient  pro 
vincial  lore  and  the  new  life  and  thought  of 
New  England  as  there  was  in  him.  While 
ho  was  with  us,  his  poems  seemed  hardly 
to  give  sufficient  witness  of  that  rich  store 
of  thought  and  knowledge;  he  was  al 
ways  making  his  horizon  wider,  at  the 
same  time  that  he  came  into  closer  sym 
pathy  with  things  near  at  hand.  For  him 
the  ancient  customs  of  a  country  neigh 
borhood,  the  simple  characters,  the  loves 


30 


and  hates  and  losses  of  a  rural  household, 
stood  for  a  type  of  human  life  in  every 
age,  and  were  never  trivial  or  narrow. 
As  he  grew  older,  these  became  less  and  less 
personal.  He  sometimes  appeared  to  think 
of  death  rather  than  the  person  who  had 
died,  and  of  love  and  grief  rather  than  of 
those  who  felt  their  influence.  His  was 
the  life  of  the  poet  first  of  all,  and  yet  the 
tale  of  his  sympathetic  friendliness,  and 
his  generosities  and  care-taking  for  others, 
will  never  be  fully  told.  The  dark  eyes 
had  great  powers  of  insight;  they  could 
flash  scorn  as  well  as  shine  with  the  soft 
light  of  encouragement. 

He  accustomed,  himself,  of  course,  to 
more  frequent  visits  to  Boston  after  his 
sister's  death,  but  he  was  seldom,  if  ever, 
persuaded  to  go  to  the  Saturday  Club,  to 
which  so  many  of  his  friends  belonged. 
Sometimes  he  would  bring  a  new  poem 
for  a  private  first  reading,  and  for  that 
purpose  would  stay  to  breakfast  or  lunch- 


eon;  but  late  dinners  were  contrary  to 
the  habit  of  his  life,  and  he  seldom  sat 
down  to  one. 

"  I  take  the  liberty,"  he  wrote  one  day, 
"  of  enclosing  a  little  poem  of  mine  which 
has  beguiled  some  weary  hours.  I  hope 
thee  will  like  it.  How  strange  it  seems 
not  to  read  it  to  my  sister!  If  thee  have 
read  Schoolcraft,  thee  will  remember  what 
he  says  of  the  'Little  Vanishers.'  The 
legend  is  very  beautiful,  and  I  hope  I 
have  done  it  justice  in  some  sort." 

In  the  spring  of  1865  he  came  to  Camp- 
ton,  on  the  Pemigewasset  River,  in  New 
Hampshire,  a  delightful  place  for  those 
who  love  green  hills  and  the  mystery 
of  rivers. 

We  were  passing  a  few  weeks  there  by 
ourselves,  and  it  was  a  great  surprise  and 
pleasure  to  see  our  friend.  He  drove  up 
to  the  door  one  afternoon  just  as  the  sun 
was  slanting  to  the  west,  too  late  to  drive 
away  again  that  day.  In  our  desire  to 
show  him  all  the  glories  of  the  spot,  wre 


32 


carried  him  out  at  once,  up  the  hill-side, 
leaping  across  the  brook,  gathering  penny 
royal  and  Indian  posy  as  we  went,  past 
the  sheep  and  on  and  up,  until  he,  laugh 
ing,  said :  "  Look  here,  I  can't  follow  thee ; 
besides,  I  think  I've  seen  more  of  this  life 
than  thee  have,  and  it  isn't  all  so  new  to 
me!  Come  and  sit  down  here;  I'm  tired." 
We  sat  a  while  overlooking  the  wonder 
ful  panorama,  the  winding  river,  the  hills 
and  fields  all  green  and  radiant,  listening 
at  times  to  a  mountain  stream  which  came 
with  wild  and  solitary  roar  from  its  sol 
emn  home  among  the  farther  heights. 
Presently  we  returned  to  supper;  and  af 
terwards,  sitting  in  the  little  parlor  which 
looked  towards  the  sunset  on  the  high  hills 
far  away,  his  mind  seemed  to  rise  also  into 
a  higher  atmosphere.  He  began  by  quot 
ing  the  last  verse  of  Emerson's  "  Sphinx:" 

"Uprose  the  merry  Sphinx, 

And  couched  no  more  in  stone; 
She  melted  into  purple  cloud, 
She  silvered  in  the  moon ; 


JOHN"   G.   WIIITTIFH 

At  fort!/  -  five   years   oj\  a 


33 

She  spired  into  a  yellow  flame; 

She  flowered  in  blossoms  red; 
She  flowed  into  a  foaming  wave ; 

She  stood  Monadnock's  head." 

He  talked  long  and  earnestly  upon  the 
subject  of  our  spiritual  existence  inde 
pendent  of  the  body.  I  have  often  heard 
him  dwell  upon  this  subject  since;  but 
the  awful  glory  of  the  hills,  the  dark  and 
silence  of  our  little  parlor,  the  assured 
speech  touching  the  unseen,  of  one  who 
had  thought  much  and  suffered  much, 
and  found  a  refuge  in  the  tabernacle  not 
made  with  hands,  were  very  impressive. 
We  felt  that  "it  was  good  for  us  to  be 
there." 

Speaking  of  his  faith  in  the  visions 
of  others — though  he  did  not  have  these 
visions  himself,  and  believed  they  were 
not  vouchsafed  to  all — he  told  us  of  a 
prophecy  that  was  written  down  twenty- 
five  years  before  by  an  old  man  in  Sand 
wich  (a  village  among  the  hills,  about 
fifteen  miles  from  Campton),  predicting 


34 


the  terrible  civil  war  which  had  just  heen 
raging  between  the  North  and  the  South. 
This  man  was  in  the  fields  at  noonday, 
when  a  darkness  fell  upon  his  sight  and 
covered  the  earth.  He  beheld  the  divid 
ed  nation  and  the  freed  people  and  the 
final  deliverance  from  the  terrors  of  war. 
The  whole  series  of  events  were  clearly  de 
tailed,  and  Whittier  had  stored  them  away 
in  his  memory.  He  said  that  only  one 
thing  was  wrong.  He  foretold  foreign 
intervention,  from  which  wre  were  happi 
ly  spared.  The  daughter  of  this  prophet 
was  living;  he  knew  her  well — an  excel 
lent  woman  and  a  Friend  who  was  often 
impressed  to  speak  in  meeting.  "She  is 
good,"  said  Whittier,  "and  speaks  from 
her  experience,  and  for  that  reason  I  like 
to  hear  her." 

Spiritualism,  as  it  is  called  in  our  day, 
was  a  subject  which  earnestly  and  steadi 
ly  held  his  attention.  Having  lived  very 
near  to  the  Salem  witchcraft  experience 
in  early  times,  the  topic  was  one  that 


35 


came  more  closely  home  to  his  mind  than 
to  almost  any  one  else  in  our  century. 
There  are  many  passages  in  his  letters  on 
this  question  which  state  his  own  mental 
position  very  clearly. 

"  I  have  had  as  good  a  chance  to  see  a 
ghost,"  he  once  said,  "  as  anybody  ever 
had,  but  not  the  slightest  sign  ever  came 
to  me.  I  do  not  doubt  what  others  tell 
me,  but  I  sometimes  wonder  over  my  own 
incapacity.  I  should  like  to  see  some 
clear  ghost  walk  in  and  sit  down  by  me 
when  I  am  here  alone.  The  doings  of 
the  old  witch  days  have  never  been  ex 
plained,  and,  as  we  are  so  soon  to  be  trans 
ferred  to  another  state,  how  natural  it 
appears  that  some  of  us  should  have 
glimpses  of  it  here!  We  all  feel  the 
help  we  receive  from  the  Divine  Spirit. 
Why  deny,  then,  that  some  men  have 
it  more  directly  and  more  visibly  than 
others?" 

In  his  memories  of  New  England  coun 
try  life  when  he  was  a  child  this  subject 


36 


was  closely  interwoven  with  every  asso 
ciation.  He  had  an  uncle,  who  made  one 
of  the  family,  a  man  by  no  means  devoid 
of  the  old-fashioned  faith  in  witches,  and 
who  was  always  ready  to  give  his  testi 
mony.  He  remembered  an  old  woman 
in  the  neighbor] iood  who  was  accused  of 
being  a  witch,  and  that  when  his  uncle's 
opinion  was  asked  about  her,  he  replied 
that  he  knew  she  was  a  witch. 
"  How  do  you  know  ?"  they  said. 
"Oh, "he  replied,  "I've  seen  her!" 
Whittier  recalled  this  uncle's  returning 
one  night  from  a  long  drive  through  the 
woods;  and  when  he  came  in  and  sat 
down  by  the  fire  after  supper,  he  told 
them  that  he  had  seen  three  old  women  in 
a  clearing  around  a  kettle,  "a-stirriii'  of 
it."  When  they  saw  him,  they  moved 
off  behind  the  trees,  but  he  distinctly  saw 
the  smoke  from  the  kettle,  and  he  recog 
nized  the  old  woman  in  question  as  one 
of  the  three  beyond  the  shadow  of  a 
doubt.  No  doubt  some  curious  rustic 


remedy  or  charm  was  being  brewed  in 
the  dark  of  the  moon.  Nothing  escaped' 
his  observation  that  was  printed  or  circu 
lated  upon  this  topic.  In  the  summer  of 
1882  he  discovered  that  Old  Orchard 
Beach  had  been  made  a  theatre  of  new 

wonders.      Dr.  —   had    been   there, 

"  working  Protestant  miracles,  and  the 
lame  walk  and  the  deaf  hear  under  his 
manipulation  and  holy  oil.  There  seems 
no  doubt  that  cures  of  nervous  diseases 
are  really  sometimes  effected,  and  I  be 
lieve  in  the  efficacy  of  prayer.  The  near 
er  we  are  drawn  to  Him  who  is  the  source 
of  all  life,  the  better  it  must  be  for  soul 
and  body." 

In  Robert  Dale  Owen  he  always  took  a 
strong  and  friendly  interest;  and  when, 
late  in  life,  reverses  fell  upon  him  in  the 
shape  of  humiliating  revelations  of  his 
own  credulity,  Whittier's  relations  to  him 
were  unchanged.  "  I  have  read  with  re 
newed  interest,"  he  wrote,  "the  paper  of 
E.  D.  Owen.  I  had  a  long  talk  with  him 


years  ago  on  the  subject.  He  was  a  very 
noble  and  good  man,  and  I  was  terribly 
indignant  when  he  was  so  deceived  by  the 
pretended  materialized  'Katie  King.'  I 
could  never  quite  believe  in  'materializa 
tion,'  as  I  had  reason  to  know  that  much 
of  it  was  fraudulent.  It  surely  argues  a 
fathomless  depth  of  depravity  to  trifle 
with  the  yearning  love  of  those  who  have 
lost  dear  ones,  and  'long  for  the  touch 
of  a  vanished  hand.'  " 

In  the  year  1866  a  very  fine  portrait  of 
Abraham  Lincoln  was  engraved  by  Mar 
shall.  A  copy  of  it  was  presented  to 
Whittier,  who  wrote  concerning  it:  "It 
was  never  my  privilege  to  know  Abraham 
Lincoln  personally,  and  the  various  pict 
ures  have  more  or  less  failed  to  satisfy  my 
conception  of  him.  They  might  be,  and 
probably  were,  what  are  called  '  good  like 
nesses,'  so  far  as  outline  and  detail  were 
concerned ;  but  to  me  they  always  seemed 
to  lack  one  great  essential  of  a  true  por- 


trait — the  informing-  spirit  of  the  man 
within.  This  I  find  in  Marshall's  por 
trait.  The  old  harsh  lines  and  unmis 
takable  mouth  are  there,  without  flattery 
or  compromise;  but  over  all  and  through 
all  the  pathetic  sadness,  the  wise  simplic 
ity  and  tender  humanity  of  the  man  are 
visible.  It  is  the  face  of  the  speaker  at 
Gettysburg,  and  the  writer  of  the  second 
inaugural." 

It  was  during  this  year,  also,  that  the 
"Tent  on  the  Beach"  was  written.  He 
had  said  again  and  again  in  his  notes 
that  he  had  this  work  in  hand,  but  al 
ways  declared  he  was  far  too  ill  to  finish 
it  during  the  year.  Nevertheless,  in  the 
last  days  of  December  the  package  was 
forwarded  to  his  publisher.  "Tell  me," 
he  wrote,  "  if  thee  object  to  the  personal 
character  of  it.  I  have  represented  thee 
and  Bayard  Taylor  and  myself  living  a 
wild  tent  life  for  a  few  summer  days  on 
the  beach,  where,  for  lack  of  something 
better,  I  read  my  stories  to  the  others. 


My  original  plan  was  the  old  '  Decameron ' 
one,  each  personage  to  read  his  own 
poems;  but  the  thing-  has  been  so  hack 
neyed  by  repetition  that  I  abandoned  it  in 
disgust,  and  began  anew.  The  result  is 
before  thee.  Put  it  in  type  or  the  fire. 
I  am  content— like  Eugene  Aram,  '  pre 
pared  for  either  fortune.'  " 

He  had  intended  also  to  accomplish 
some  work  in  prose  at  this  period,  but 
the  painful  condition  of  his  health  for 
bade  it.  "I  am  forbidden  to  use  my 
poor  head,"  he  said,  "so  I  have  to  get 
along  as  I  can  without  it.  The  Catholic 
St.  Leon,  thee  knows,  walked  alert  as 
usual  after  his  head  was  cut  off." 

I  am  tempted  to  quote  still  further 
from  a  letter  of  this  period:  "I  enclose  a 
poem  of  mine  which  has  never  seen  the 
light,  although  it  was  partly  in  print  from 
my  first  draft  to  spare  me  the  trouble  of 
copying.  It  presents  my  view  of  Christ 
as  the  special  manifestation  of  the  love  of 
God  to  humanity.  .  .  .  Let  me  thank  the 


publisher  of  Milton's  prose  for  the  com 
pliment  of  the  dedication.  Milton's  prose 
has  long  been  my  favorite  reading.  My 
whole  life  has  felt  the  influence  of  his 
writings." 

There  is  a  delightful  note  on  the  subject 
of  the  popularity  of  the  "Tent  on  the 
Beach,"  which  shows  his  natural  pleasure 
in  success.  "Think,  "he  says,  "of  bagging 
in  this  tent  of  ours  an  unsuspecting  public 
at  the  rate  of  a  thousand  a  day!  This 
will  never  do.  The  swindle  is  awful. 
Barnum  is  a  saint  to  us.  I  am  bowed 
with  a  sense  of  guilt,  ashamed  to  look  an 
honest  man  in  the  face.  But  Nemesis  is 
on  our  track;  somebody  will  puncture  our 
tent  yet,  and  it  will  collapse  like  a  torn 
balloon.  I  know  I  shall  have  to  catch 
it;  my  back  tingles  in  anticipation." 

It  was  perhaps  in  this  same  year,  1866, 
that  we  made  an  autumn  visit  to  Whit- 
tier,  which  is  still  a  well  -  remembered 
pleasure.  The  weather  was  warm  and 


42 


the  fruit  was  ripening-  in  the  little  Ames- 
bury  garden.  We  loitered  about  for  a 
while,  I  remember,  in  the  afternoon, 
among  the  falling  pear  leaves  and  in  the 
sweet  air,  but  he  soon  led  the  way  into 
his  garden-room,  and  fell  into  talk.  He 
was  an  adept  in  the  art  of  conversation, 
having  trained  himself  in  the  difficult 
school  of  a  New  England  farm-house,  fit 
ground  for  such  athletics,  being  typically 
bare  of  suggestion  and  of  relief  from  out 
side  resources.  The  unbroken  afternoons 
and  the  long  evenings,  when  the  only 
hope  of  entertainment  is  in  such  fire  as 
one  brain  can  strike  from  another,  pro 
duce  a  situation  as  difficult  to  the  un 
skilled  as  that  of  an  untaught  swimmer 
when  first  cast  into  the  sea.  Persons 
long  habituated  to  these  contests  could 
face  the  position  calmly,  and  see  the  early 
"tea-things"  disappear  and  the  contest 
ants  draw  their  chairs  around  the  fire 
with  a  kind  of  zeal;  but  to  one  new  to 
such  experience  there  was  room  for  heart- 


43 


sinkings  when  preparations  were  made, 
by  putting  fresh  sticks  on  the  fire,  for  sit 
ting  from  gloaming  to  vespers,  and  some 
times  on  again  unwearied  till  midnight. 

Mrs.  Stowe  and  Whittier  were  the  in 
vincible  Lancelots  of  these  tourneys,  and 
any  one  who  has  had  the  privilege  of  sit 
ting  by  the  New  England  hearth-stone 
with  either  of  them  will  be  ready  to  con 
fess  that  no  playhouse,  or  game,  or  any 
of  the  distractions  the  city  may  afford, 
can  compare  with  the  satisfaction  of  such 
an  experience.  Upon  the  visit  in  ques 
tion  Whittier  talked  of  the  days  of  his 
antislavery  life  in  1835  or  '36,  when  the 
English  agitator,  George  Thompson,  first 
came  to  this  country.  The  latter  was 
suffering  from  the  attack  of  many  a  mob, 
and  was  fatigued  by  frequent  speaking 
and  as  frequent  abuse.  Whittier  invited 
him  to  his  home  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Haverhill,  where  he  could  find  quiet  and 
rest  during  the  warm  weather.  Thomp 
son  accepted  the  invitation,  and  remained 


44 


with,  him  a  fortnight.  They  used  to  rake 
hay  together,  and  go  about  the  farm  un 
molested.  At  length,  however,  a  press 
ing  invitation  came-  for  Thompson  to  go 
to  Concord,  New  Hampshire,  to  speak  in 
the  cause  of  freedom,  and  afterwards  to 
continue  on  to  the  village  of  Plymouth 
and  visit  a  friend  in  that  place.  Whittier 
was  included  in  the  invitation,  and  it 
was  settled  that  they  should  accept  the 
call.  They  travelled  peaceably  enough, 
in  their  own  chaise,  as  far  as  Concord, 
where  the  speech  was  delivered  without 
interruption;  but  when  they  attempted 
to  leave  the  hall  after  the  address  was 
ended,  they  found  it  almost  impossible. 
A  crowd  followed  them  with  the  appar 
ent  intention  of  stoning  and  killing  them. 
"  I  understood  how  St.  Paul  felt  when  he 
was  thrice  stoned,"  said  Whittier.  The 
missiles  fell  around  them  and  upon  them 
like  hail,  not  touching  their  heads,  provi 
dentially,  although  he  could  still  remem 
ber  the  sound  of  the  stones  when  they 


45 


missed  their  aim  and  struck  the  wooden 
fence  behind  them.  They  were  made 
very  lame  by  the  blows,  but  they  man 
aged  to  reach  their  friend's  house,  where 
they  sprang  up  the  steps  three  at  a  time, 
before  the  crowd  knew  where  they  were 
going.  Their  host  was  certainly  a  brave 
man,  for  he  met  them  at  the  door,  and 
throwing  it  open,  exclaimed,  "Whoever 
comes' in  here  must  come  over  my  dead 
body."  The  door  was  then  barricaded, 
and  the  crowd  rushed  round  to  the  back 
of  the  house,  thinking  that  their  victims 
intended  to  go  out  that  way ;  but  the  travel 
lers  waited  until  it  was  dark,  when  Whit- 
tier  exchanged  his  friend's  hat  for  that  of 
his  host,  and  anything  else  peculiar  about 
his  dress  being  well  disguised,  the  two 
managed  to  pass  out  unperceived  by  the 
crowd,  and  go  011  their  way  to  Plymouth. 
They  stopped  one  night  on  their  journey 
at  a  small  inn,  where  the  landlord  asked 
if  they  had  heard  anything  of  the  riot  in 
Concord.  Two  men  had  been  there,  he 


46 


said,  one  an  Englishman  by  the  name  of 
Thompson,  who  had  been  making  abom 
inable  and  seditious  speeches,  stirring  up 
people  about  "the  niggers;"  the  other 
was  a  young  Quaker  by  the  name  of 
"Whittier,  who  was  always  making- speech 
es.  He  heard  him  lecture  once  himself, 
he  said  (a  base  lie,  Whittier  told  us,  be 
cause  he  had  never  "lectured"  in  his 
life),  and  it  was  well  that  active  measures 
had  been  taken  against  them.  "We 
heard  him  all  through,"  said  Whittier, 
"and  then,  just  as  I  had  my  foot  on  the 
step  of  the  chaise,  ready  to  drive  away 
from  the  door,  I  remarked  to  him, 
'  Wouldn't  you  like  to  see  that  Thompson 
of  whom  you  have  been  speaking?'  I 
took  good  care  not  to  use  '  plain  '  lan 
guage  (that  is,  the  Quaker  form).  'I 
rather  think  I  should,'  said  the  man. 
4  Well,  this  is  Mr.  Thompson,'  I  said,  as 
I  jumped  into  the  chaise.  'And  this  is 
the  Quaker,  Whittier,'  said  Thompson, 
driving  away  as  fast  as  he  could.  I 


47 


looked  back,  and  saw  him  standing, 
mouth  wide  open,  gazing  after  us  in  the 
greatest  astonishment." 

The  t\vo  kept  on.  to  Plymouth,  where 
they  were  nearly  mobbed  a  second  time. 
Years  after,  Whittier  said  that  once  when 
he  was  passing  through  Portland,  a  man, 
seeing  him  go  by,  stepped  out  of  his  shop 
and  asked  if  his  name  were  Whittier,  and 
if  he  were  not  the  man  who  was  stoned, 
years  before,  by  a  mob  at  Concord.  The 
answer  being  in  the  affirmative,  he  said 
he  believed  a  devil  possessed  him  that 
night;  for  he  had  no  reason  to  wish  evil 
either  to  Whittier  or  Thompson,  yet  he 
was  filled  with  a  desire  to  kill  them,  and 
he  thought  he  should  have  done  so  if 
they  had  not  escaped.  He  added  that  the 
mob  was  like  a  crowd  of  demons,  and  he 
knew  one  man  who  had  mixed  a  black 
dye  to  dip  them  in,  which  would  be  almost 
impossible  to  get  off.  He  could  not  ex 
plain  to  himself  or  to  another  the  state  of 
mind  he  was  in. 


The  next  morning  we  walked  with 
Whittier  again  in  his  little  garden,  and 
saw  his  grapes,  which  were  a  source  of 
pride  and  pleasure.  One  vine,  he  told  us, 
came  up  from  a  tiny  rootlet  sent  to  him  by 
Charles  Sunnier,  in  a  letter  from  Wash 
ington. 

Later  we  strolled  forth  into  the  village 
street  as  far  as  the  Friends'  meeting 
house,  and  sat  down  upon  the  steps  while 
he  told  us  something  of  his  neighbors. 
He  himself,  he  said,  had  planted  the  trees 
about  the  church:  they  were  then  good- 
sized  trees.  He  spoke  very  earnestly 
about  the  worship  of  the  Friends.  All 
the  associations  of  his  youth  and  all  the 
canons  of  his  education  and  development 
were  grounded  on  the  Friends'  faith  and 
doctrine,  and  he  was  anxious  that  they 
should  show  a  growth  commensurate  with 
the  age.  He  disliked  many  of  the  inno 
vations,  but  his  affectionate  spirit  clung 
to  his  people,  and  he  longed  to  see  them 
drawing  to  themselves  a  larger  measure 


49 


of  spiritual  life,  day  by  day.  He  loved 
the  old  custom  of  sitting1  in  silence,  and 
hoped  they  would  not  stray  away  into 
habits  of  much  speaking.  The  old  habits 
of  the  meeting-house  were  very  dear  to 
him. 

One  cold,  clear  morning  in  January  I 
heard  his  early  ring.  He  had  been  ill, 
but  was  so  much  better  that  he  was  abso 
lutely  gay.  He  insisted  upon  blowing 
the  fire,  which,  as  sometimes  happens, 
will  struggle  to  do  its  worst  on  the  coldest 
days ;  and  as  the  flames  at  last  began  to 
roar,  his  spirits  rose  with  them.  He  was 
rejoicing  over  Garibaldi's  victory.  The 
sufferings  of  Italy  had  been  so  terrible 
that  even  one  small  victory  in  their  be 
half  seemed  a  great  gain.  He  said  that 
he  had  been  trying  to  arouse  the  interest 
of  the  Friends,  but  it  usually  took  about 
two  years  to  thoroughly  awaken  them 
on  any  great  topic! 

He  remained  several  hours  that  morn- 

4 


50 


ing  talking  over  his  hopes  for  the  coun 
try  —  of  politics,  of  Charles  Sumner,  of 
whom  he  said,  u  Sumner  is  always  funda 
mentally  right;"  and  of  John  Bright,  for 
whose  great  gifts  he  had  sincere  admira 
tion.  Soon  afterwards,  at  the  time  of  this 
great  man's  death,  Whittier  wrote  to  us: 
"Spring  is  here  to-day,  warm,  birdfull.  .  .  . 
It  seems  strange  that  I  am  alive  to  wel 
come  her  when  so  many  have  passed  away 
with  the  winter,  and  among  them  that 
stalwartest  of  Englishmen,  John  Bright, 
sleeping  now  in  the  daisied  grounds  of 
Rochdale,  never  more  to  move  the  world 
with  his  surpassing  eloquence.  How  I 
regret  that  I  have  never  seen  him !  We 
had  much  in  common  in  our  religious 
faith,  our  hatred  of  war  and  oppression. 
His  great  genius  seemed  to  me  to  be  al 
ways  held  firmly  in  hand  by  a  sense  of 
duty,  and  by  the  practical  common-sense 
of  a  shrewd  man  of  business.  He  fought 
through  life  like  an  old  knight -errant, 
but  without  enthusiasm.  He  had  no  per- 


sonal  ideals.  I  remember  once  how  he 
remonstrated  with  me  for  my  admiration 
for  General  Gordon.  He  looked  upon  that 
wonderful  personality  as  a  wild  fighter,  a 
rash  adventurer,  doing  evil  that  good 
might  come.  He  could  not  see  him  as  I 
saw  him,  giving  his  life  for  humanity, 
alone  and  unfriended,  in  that  dreadful 
Soudan.  He  did  not  like  the  idea  of  fight 
ing  Satan  with  Satan's  weapons.  Lord 
Salisbury  said  truly  that  John  Bright  was 
the  greatest  orator  England  had  produced, 
and  his  eloquence  was  only  called  out  by 
what  he  regarded  as  the  voice  of  God  in 
his  soul." 

When  at  length  Whittier  rose  to  go  that 
winter  morning,  with  the  feeling  that  he 
had  already  taken  too  large  a  piece  out  of 
the  day,  we  pressed  him  to  stay  longer, 
since  it  was  already  late.  "Why  can't 
you  stay?"  urged  his  host.  "Because,  I 
tell  you,  I  don't  want  to,"  which  set  us 
all  laughing,  and  settled  the  question. 

Our  first  knowledge  of  his  arrival  in 


town  was  usually  that  early  and  punctual 
ring  to  which  I  have  referred.  He  would 
come  in  looking  pale  and  thin,  but  full  of 
fire,  and,  as  we  would  soon  find,  of  a  certain 
vigor.  He  became  interested  one  morn 
ing  in  a  plan  proposed  to  him  for  making 
a  collection  of  poems  for  young  people, 
one  which  he  finally  completed  with  the 
aid  of  Miss  Lucy  Larcom.  We  got  down 
from  the  shelf  Longfellow1  s  "Poets  and 
Poetry  of  Europe,"  and  looked  it  over  to 
gether.  "Annie  of  Tharaw  "  was  a  great 
favorite  of  his,  and  the  poem  by  Dirk 
Smit,  on  "  The  Death  of  an  Infant,"  found 
his  ready  appreciation.  Whittier  easily 
fell  from  these  into  talk  of  Burns,  who 
was  his  master  and  ideal.  "He  lives, 
next  to  Shakespeare,"  he  said,  "in  the 
heart  of  humanity." 

In  speaking  of  Rossetti  and  of  his  bal 
lad  of  "Sister  Helen,"  he  confessed  to 
being  strangely  attracted  to  this  poem, 
because  he  could  remember  seeing  his 
mother,  "  who  was  as  good  a  woman  as 


ever  lived,"  and  his  aunt,  performing  the 
same  strange  act  of  melting  a  waxen  fig 
ure  of  a  clergyman  of  their  time. 

The  solemnity  of  the  affair  made  a  deep 
impression  on  his  mind,  as  a  child,  for  the 
death  of  the  clergyman  in  question  was 
confidently  expected.  His  "heresies" 
had  led  him  to  experience  this  cabalistic 
treatment. 

There  was  some  talk,  also,  that  morn 
ing  of  the  advantages,  in  these  restless 
days,  accruing  to  those  who  "stay  put" 
in  this  world,  instead  of  to  those  who 
are  forever  beating  about,  searching  for 
greater  opportunities  from  position  or  cir 
cumstance.  He  laughed  heartily  over 
the  tale,  which  had  just  then  reached  us, 
of  Carlyle  going  to  hunt  up  a  new  resi 
dence  in  London  with  a  map  of  the  world 
in  his  pocket. 

We  asked  Whittier  if  he  never  felt 
tempted  to  go  to  Quebec  from  his  well- 
beloved  haunts  in  the  White  Mountains. 
"Oh  no,"  he  replied.  "I  know  it  all  by 


54 


books  and  pictures  just  as  well  as  if  I  had 
seen  it." 

This  talk  of  travelling  reminded  him 
of  a  circus  which  came  one  season  to 
Amesbury.  "I  was  in  my  garden,"  he 
said,  "when  I  saw  an  Arab  wander  down 
the  street,  and  by-and-by  stop  and  lean 
against  my  gate.  He  held  a  small  book 
in  his  hand,  which  he  was  reading  from 
time  to  time  when  he  was  not  occupied 
with  gazing  about  him.  Presently  I 
went  to  talk  with  him,  and  found  he  had 
lived  all  his  life  on  the  edge  of  the  Desert 
until  he  had  started  for  America.  He 
was  very  homesick,  and  longed  for  the 
time  of  his  return.  He  had  hired  him 
self  for  a  term  of  years  to  the  master  of 
the  circus.  He  held  the  Koran  in  his 
hand,  and  was  delighted  to  find  a  friend 
who  had  also  read  his  sacred  book.  He 
opened  his  heart  still  further  then,  and 
said  how  he  longed  for  his  old,  wild  life 
in  the  Desert,  for  a  sight  of  the  palms, 
and  the  sands,  but,  above  all,  for  its  free- 


55 


dom."  This  interview  made  a  deep  im 
pression,  naturally,  upon  Wbittier's  mind, 
he,  who  was  no  traveller  himself,  having 
thus  sung : 

"  He  who  wanders  widest,  lifts 
No  more  of  beauty's  jealous  veil 
Than  he  who  from  his  doorway  sees 
The  miracle  of  flowers  and  trees." 

The  memory  of  a  visit  to  Amesbury, 
made  once  in  September,  vividly  remains 
with  me.  It  was  early  in  the  month, 
when  the  lingering  heat  of  summer  seems 
sometimes  to  gather  fresh  intensity  from 
the  fact  that  we  are  so  soon  to  hear  the 
winds  of  autumn.  Amesbury  had  greatly 
altered  of  late  years;  "large  enough  to 
be  a  city,"  our  friend  declared;  "but  I 
am  not  fat  enough  to  be  an  alderman." 
To  us  it  was  still  a  small  village,  though 
somewhat  dustier  and  less  attractive  than 
when  we  first  knew  it. 

As  we  approached  the  house,  we  saw 
him  from  a  distance  characteristically 


gazing  down  the  road  for  us,  from  his 
front  yard,  and  then  at  the  first  glimpse 
suddenly  disappearing,  to  come  forth 
again  to  meet  us,  quite  fresh  and  quiet, 
from  his  front  door.  It  had  been  a  very 
hot,  dry  summer,  and  everything  about 
that  place,  as  about  every  other,  was  parch 
ed  and  covered  with  dust.  There  had 
been  no  rain  for  weeks,  and  the  village 
street  was  then  quite  innocent  of  water 
ing-carts.  The  fruit  hung  heavily  from 
the  nearly  leafless  trees,  and  the  soft  thud 
of  the  pears  and  apples  as  they  fell  to  the 
ground  could  be  heard  on  every  side  in 
the  quiet  house-yards.  The  sun  strug 
gled  feebly  through  the  mists  during  the 
noontide  hours,  when  a  still  heat  per 
vaded  rather  than  struck  the  earth;  and 
then  in  the  early  afternoon,  and  late  into 
the  next  morning,  a  stirless  cloud  seemed 
to  cover  the  face  of  the  world.  These 
mists  were  much  increased  by  the  burn 
ing  of  peat  and  brush,  and,  alas!  of  the 
very  woods  themselves,  in  every  direc- 


tion.  Altogether,  as  Whittier  said,  quaint 
ly,  "it  was  very  encouraging  weather 
for  the  Millerites." 

His  niece,  who  bears  the  name  of  his 
beloved  sister,  was  then  the  mistress  of 
his  home,  and  we  were  soon  made  heart 
ily  welcome  inside  the  house,  where  every 
thing  was  plain  and  neat  as  became  a 
Friend's  household;  but  as  the  village 
had  grown  to  be  a  stirring  place,  and  the 
house  stood  close  upon  the  dusty  road, 
such  charming  neatness  must  sometimes 
have  been  a  difficult  achievement.  The 
noonday  meal  was  soon  served  and  soon 
ended,  and  then  we  sat  down  behind  the 
half-closed  blinds,  looking  out  upon  the 
garden,  the  faded  vines,  and  almost  leaf 
less  trees.  It  was  a  cosey  room,  with  its 
Franklin-stove,  at  this  season  surmounted 
by  a  bouquet,  and  a  table  between  the 
windows,  where  was  a  larger  bouquet, 
which  Whittier  himself  had  gathered  that 
morning  in  anticipation  of  our  arrival. 
He  seemed  brighter  and  better  than  we 


58 


bad  dared  to  hope,  and  was  in  excellent 
mood  for  talking.  Referring1  again  to  the 
Millerites,  who  had  been  so  reanimated 
by  the  forest  fires,  he  said  he  had  been 
deeply  impressed  lately  with  their  deplor 
able  doctrines.  "Continually  disappointed 
because  we  don't  all  burn  up  on  a  sudden, 
they  forget  to  be  thankful  for  their  pres 
ervation  from  the  dire  fate  they  predict 
with  so  much  complacency." 

He  had  just  received  a  proof  of  his  poem 
"  Miriam,"  with  the  introduction,  and  he 
could  not  be  content  until  they  had  both 
been  read  aloud  to  him.  After  the  read 
ing  they  were  duly  commented  upon,  and 
revised  until  he  thought  he  could  do  no 
more ;  yet  twice  before  our  departure  the 
proofs  were  taken  out  of  the  hand-bag 
where  they  were  safely  stowed  away,  and 
again  more  or  less  altered. 

Whittier's  ever-growing  fame  was  not 
taken  by  him  as  a  matter  of  course.  u  I 
cannot  think  very  well  of  my  own  things, " 
he  used  to  say;  "  and  what  is  mere  fame 


worth  when,  thee  is  at  borne,  alone,  and 
sick  with  headaches, unable  either  to  read 
or  to  write  ?"  Nevertheless,  he  derived 
very  great  pleasure  and  consolation  from 
the  letters  and  tributes  which  poured  in 
upon  him  from  hearts  he  had  touched  or 
lives  he  had  quickened.  "  That  I  like," 
he  would  say  sometimes;  "  that  is  wortli 
having."  But  he  must  often  have  known 
the  deeps  of  sadness  in  winter  evenings 
when  he  was  too  ill  to  touch  book  or 
•pen,  and  when  he  could  do  nothing  dur 
ing  the  long  hours  but  sit  and  think  over 
the  fire. 

We  slept  in  Elizabeth's  chamber.  The 
portrait  of  their  mother,  framed  in  autumn 
leaves  gathered  in  the  last  autumn  of  her 
life,  hung  upon  the  wall.  Here,  too,  as 
in  our  bedroom  at  Dickens's,  the  diary  of 
Pepys  lay  on  the  table.  Dickens  had 
read  his  copy  faithfully,  and  written  notes 
therein.  Of  this  copy  the  leaves  had  not 
been  cut;  but  with  it  lay  the  "  Prayers  of 
the  Ages,"  and  volumes  of  poems,  which 


had  all  been  well  read,  and  "Pickwick" 
upon  the  top. 

In  the  year  1867  Charles  Dickens  came 
to  America  to  give  his  famous  Readings. 
Whittier,  as  we  have  seen,  was  seldom 
tempted  out  of  his  country  home  and 
habitual  ways,  but  Dickens  was  for  one 
moment  too  much  for  him.  To  our  sur 
prise,  he  wrote  to  ask  if  he  could  possibly 
get  a  seat  to  hear  him.  "  I  see  there  is  a 
crazy  rush  for  tickets."  A  favorable  an 
swer  was  despatched  to  him  as  soon  as 
practicable,  but  he  had  already  repented 
of  the  indiscretion.  "My  dear  Fields," 
he  wrote,  "up  to  the  last  moment  I  have 
hoped  to  occupy  the  seat  so  kindly  prom 
ised  me  for  this  evening.  But  I  find  I 
must  give  it  up.  Gladden  with  it  the 
heart  of  some  poor  wretch  who  dangled 
and  shivered  all  in  vain  in  your  long 
queue  the  other  morning.  I  must  read 
my  'Pickwick' alone,  as  the  Marchioness 
played  cribbage.  I  should  so  like,  never- 


61 


theless,  to  see  Dickens,  and  shake  that 
creative  hand  of  his !  It  is  as  well,  doubt 
less,  so  far  as  he  is  concerned,  that  I  can 
not  do  it;  he  will  have  enough  and  too 
much  of  that,  I  fear.  I  dreamed  last 
night  I  saw  him  surrounded  by  a  mob  of 
ladies,  each,  with  her  scissors  snipping  at 
his  hair,  and  he  seemed  in  a  fair  way  to 
be  '  shaven  and  shorn,'  like  the  Priest  in 
4 The  House  that  Jack  Built.'  " 

The  large  events  of  humanity  were  to 
Whittier  a  portion  of  his  own  experience, 
his  personal  life  being,  in  the  ordinary 
sense,  devoid  of  incident.  The  death  of 
Charles  Dickens,  in  1871,  was  a  personal 
loss,  just  as  his  life  had  been  a  living  gain 
to  this  remote  and  invalid  man.  One 
long  quiet  summer  afternoon  shortly  after, 
Whittier  joined  us  for  the  sake  of  talking 
about  Dickens.  He  told  us  what  sunshine 
came  from  him  into  his  own  solemn  and 
silent  country  life,  and  what  grateful  love 
he  must  ever  bear  to  him.  He  wished  to 
hea.r  all  that  could  be  told  of  him  as  a 


man.  Tea  came,  and  the  sun  went  down, 
and  still  lie  talked  and  questioned,  and 
then,  after  a  long  silence,  lie  said,  sudden 
ly:  "  What's  lie  doing  now  ?  Sometimes 
I  say,  in  Shakespeare's  phrase,  O  for 
some  'courteous  ghost,'  but  nothing  ever 
comes  to  me.  He  was  so  human  I  should 
think  thee  must  see  him  sometimes.  It 
seems  as  if  he  were  the  very  person  to 
manifest  himself  and  give  us  a  glimpse 
beyond.  I  believe  I  have  faith;  I  some 
times  think  I  have;  but  this  desire  to  see 
just  a  little  way  is  terribly  strong  in  me. 
I  have  expressed  something  of  it  in  my 
verses  to  Mrs.  Child  about  Loring." 

He  spoke  also  of  the  significance  of  our 
prayers;  of  their  deep  value  to  our  spirit 
in  constantly  renewing  the  sense  of  de 
pendence  :  and  further,  since  we  "surely 
find  that  our  prayers  are  answered,  what 
blindness  and  fatuity  there  is  in  neglect 
or  abuse  of  our  privilege!" 

He  was  thinking  of  editing  a  new  edi 
tion  of  John  Wool  man.  He  hoped  to 


63 


induce  certain  people  who  would  read  his 
own  books,  to  read  that,  by  writing  a 
preface  for  it. 

The  death  of  Henry  Ward  Beecher  was 
also  a  loss  and  a  sadness  to  him  in  his 
solitary  life.  "  I  am  saddened  by  the 
death  of  Beecher,"  he  wrrote;  "he  was 
so  strong,  so  generous,  so  warm-hearted, 
and  so  brave  and  stalwart  in  so  many 
good  causes.  It  is  a  mighty  loss.  He 
had  faults,  like  all  of  us,  and  needed  for 
giveness;  and  I  think  he  could  say,  with 
David  of  old,  that  he  would  rather  fall 
into  the  Lord's  hands  than  into  the  hands 
of  man." 

It  is  anticipating  the  years  and  inter 
rupting  the  narrative  to  mention  here  a 
few  of  the  men  who  gladdened  his  later 
life  by  their  friendship,  but  the  subject 
demands  a  brief  space  before  we  return 
to  the  current  story  of  his  days. 

Matthew  Arnold  went  to  see  him  upon 
his  arrival  in  this  country,  and  it  is  need 
less  to  say  that  Whittier  derived  sincere 


64 


pleasure  from  the  visit;  but  Arnold's  de 
lightful  recognition  of  Whittier's  "In 
School  Days,"  as  one  of  the  perfect  poems 
which  must  live,  gave  him  fresh  assurance 
of  fulfilled  purpose  in  existence.  He  had 
followed  Arnold  with  appreciation  from 
his  earliest  appearance  in  the  world  of 
letters,  and  knew  him,  as  it  were,  "by 
heart"  long  before  a  personal  interview 
was  possible.  In  a  letter  written  after 
Arnold's  return  to  England,  he  says:  "I 
share  thy  indignation  at  the  way  our 
people  have  spoken  of  him — one  of  the 
foremost  men  of  our  time,  a  true  poet,  a 
wise  critic,  and  a  brave,  upright  man,  to 
whom  all  English-speaking  people  owe  a 
debt  of  gratitude.  I  am  sorry  I  could 
not  see  him  again." 

When  the  end  came,  a  few  years  later, 
he  was  among  the  first  to  say,  "What  a 
loss  English  literature  has  sustained  in 
the  death  of  Matthew  Arnold!" 

As  I  have  already  suggested,  he  kept 
the  run  of  all  the  noteworthy  people  who 


is 


65 


came  to  Boston  quite  as  surely  as  they 
kept  in  pursuit  of  him. 

"I  hope  thee  will  see  the  wonderful 
prophet  of  the  Bramo  Somaj,  Mozoom- 
dar,  before  he  leaves  the  country.  I 
should  have  seen  him  in  Boston  but  for 
illness  last  week.  That  movement  in 
India  is  the  greatest  event  in  the  his 
tory  of  Christianity  since  the  days  of 
Paul. 

"  So  the  author  of  'Christie  Johnstone' 
is  dead.  I  have  read  and  reread  that 
charming  little  story  with  ever- increas 
ing  admiration.  I  am  sorry  for  the 
coarseness  of  some  of  his  later  writings; 
but  he  was,  after  all,  a  great  novelist,  sec 
ond  only  in  our  times  to  George  Eliot, 
Dickens,  and  Thackeray.  ...  I  shall  be 
glad  to  hear  more  about  Mr.  Wood's  and 
Mrs.  —  — 's  talks.  Any  hint  or  sign  or 
token  from  the  unseen  and  spiritual 
world  is  full  of  solemn  interest,  standing 
as  I  do  on  the  shore  of  '  that  vast  ocean 
I  must  sail  so  soon.'.  . . 

5 


"You  will  soon  have  Amelia  Edwards 
with  you.  I  am  sorry  that  I  have  not 
been  able  to  call  on  her.  Pray  assure 
her  of  my  sincere  respect  and  admira 
tion." 

And  again  :  ; '  Have  thee  seen  and  heard 
the  Hindoo  Mohini  ?  He  seems  to  have 
really  converted  some  people.  I  hear 
that  one  of  them  has  got  a  Bible !" 

The  phrase  that  he  is  "  beset  by  pil 
grims"  occurs  frequently  in  his  letters, 
contrasted  with  pleased  expressions,  and 
descriptions  of  visits  from  Phillips  Brooks, 
Canon  Farrar,  Governor  and  Mrs.  Claf- 
lin,  and  other  friends  whose  faces  were 
always  a  joy  to  him. 

I  have  turned  aside  from  the  narrative 
of  e very-day  life  to  mention  these  friends ; 
but  it  is  interesting  to  return  and  recall 
the  earlier  years,  when  he  came  one  day 
to  dine  in  Charles  Street  with  Mr.  Emer 
son.  As  usual,  his  coming  had  been  very 
uncertain.  He  was  never  to  be  counted 
upon  as  a  visitor,  but  at  length  the  moment 


6T 


came  when  he  was  in  better  health  than 
ordinary,  and  the  stars  were  in  conjunc 
tion.  I  can  recall  his  saying  to  Emerson  : 
"I  had  to  choose  between  hearing  thee 
at  thy  lecture  and  coming  here  to  see 
thee.  I  chose  to  see  thee.  I  could  not 
do  both."  Emerson  was  heard  to  say  to 
him,  solicitously:  "  I  hope  you  are  pretty 
well,  sir !  I  believe  you  formerly  bragged 
of  bad  health." 

It  was  Whittier's  custom,  however,  to 
make  quite  sure  that  all  "lions"  and 
other  disturbing  elements  were  well  out 
of  the  way  before  he  turned  his  steps  to 
the  library  in  Charles  Street.  I  recall 
his  coming  one  Sunday  morning  when 
we  were  at  church,  and  waiting  until  our 
return.  He  thought  that  would  be  a  safe 
moment!  He  was  full,  as  Madame  de 
Sevigne  says, "  de  conversations  infinies" 
being  especially  interested  just  then  in 
the  question  of  schools  for  the  freedmen, 
and  eagerly  discussed  ways  and  means 
for  starting  and  supporting  them. 


We  were  much  amused  by  his  inge 
nuity  in  getting  contributions  from  his 
home  town.  It  appears  that  he  had  taken 
it  into  consideration  that  there  were  a 
number  of  carriage-makers  in  Amesbury. 
He  suggested  that  each  one  of  these  men 
should  give  some  part  of  a  carriage — one 
the  wheels,  one  the  body,  one  the  furnish 
ings,  etc.,  dividing  it  in  all  among  twenty 
workmen.  When  it  was  put  together,  he 
had  a  carriage  which  was  sold  for  two 
hundred  dollars,  which  was  exactly  the 
sum  requisite  for  Amesbury  to  give. 

He  had  just  parted  from  his  niece,  who 
had  gone  to  teach  the  freed  people  in  a 
small  Southern  village.  He  could  not 
help  feeling  anxious  for  her  welfare. 
She  .and  her  young  coworkers  would  be 
the  only  Northerners  in  the  place.  Of 
course,  such  new- comers  would  be  re 
garded  with  110  friendly  eye  by  the 
"mean  whites,"  and  their  long  distance 
from  home  and  from  any  protection 
would  make  their  position  a  very  forlorn 


G9 


one  indeed  if  the  natives  should  turn 
against  them.  He  was  fearful  lest  they 
should  be  half  starved.  However,  they 
had  departed  in  excellent  spirits,  which 
went  a  long  way  to  cheer  everybody  con 
cerned. 

He  was  also  full  of  sympathy  and 
anxiety  regarding  the  well-being  of  a 
young  colored  girl  here  at  the  North, 
whose  sad  situation  he  had  been  called 
upon  to  relieve;  and  after  discussing 
ways  and  laying  plans  for  her  comfort 
(which  he  afterwards  adhered  to,  until  in 
later  years  she  was  placed  in  a  happy 
home  of  her  own),  he  went  on  to  discuss 
the  needs  of  yet  a  third  young  person, 
another  victim  of  the  war,  who  was  then 
teaching  in  Amesbury.  He  was  almost 
as  remarkable  as  Mrs.  Child  in  his  power 
of  making  his  own  small  provision  into 
a  broad  mantle  to  cover  many  shoulders. 
He  was  undaunted,  too,  in  his  efforts, 
where  his  own  resources  failed,  to  get 
what  was  needed  by  the  help  of  others. 


70 


His  common-sense  was  so  great,  and  his 
own  habits  so  frugal,  that  no  one  could 
imagine  a  dollar  wasted  or  misapplied 
that  was  confided  to  his  stewardship. 
His  benefactions  were  ceaseless,  and  they 
were  one  of  the  chief  joys  of  his  later  life. 
The  subject  of  what  may  be  done  for  this 
or  that  person  or  cause  is  continually 
recurring  in  his  letters.  Once  I  find  this 
plea  in  verse  after  the  manner  of  Burns: 

"  0  well-paid  author,  fat-fed  scholar, 
Whose  pockets  jingle  with  the  dollar, 
No  sheriff's  hand  upon  your  collar, 

No  duns  to  bother, 

Think  on't,  a  tithe  of  what  ye  swallow 
Would  save  your  brother!" 

And  again  and  again  there  are  passages 
in  his  letters  like  the  following:  "I  hope 
the  Industrial  Home  may  be  saved,  and 
wish  I  was  a  rich  man  just  long  enough 
to  help  save  it.  As  it  is,  if  the  subscrip 
tion  needs  $30  to  fill  it  up,  I  shall  be  glad 
to  give  the  mite."  "  I  have  long  follow 
ed  Maurice,"  he  says  again,  uin  his  work 


as  a  religious  and  social  reformer — a  true 
apostle  of  the  gospel  of  humanity.  He 
saw  clearly,  and  in  advance  of  his  cleri 
cal  brethren,  the  necessity  of  wise  and 
righteous  dealing  with  the  momentous 
and  appalling  questions  of  labor  and 
poverty." 

He  wrote  one  day:  "  If  you  go  to  Rich 
mond,  why  don't  you  visit  Hampton  and 
Old  Point  Comfort,  where  that  Christian 
knight  and  latter-day  Galahad,  General 
Armstrong,  is  making  his  holy  experi 
ment?  I  think  it  would  be  worth  your 
while." 

General  Armstrong  and  his  brave  work 
in  founding  and  maintaining  the  Hamp 
ton  School  for  the  education,  at  first,  of 
the  colored  people  alone,  and  finally  for 
the  Indians  also,  was  one  of  the  near  and 
living  interests  of  Whittier's  life.  Often 
and  often  in  his  letters  do  we  find  refer 
ences  to  the  subject;  either  he  regrets 
having  to  miss  seeing  the  General,  upon 
one  of  his  Northern  trips,  or  he  re- 


72 


joices  in  falling  in  with  some  of  the  teach 
ers  at  Asquam  Lake  or  elsewhere,  or  his 
note  is  jubilant  over  some  new  gift  which 
will  make  the  General's  work  for  the  year 
less  difficult. 

Once  he  writes:  u I  am  grieved  to  hear 
of  General  Armstrong's  illness.  I  am 
not  surprised  at  it.  He  has  been  work 
ing  in  his  noble  cause  beyond  any  mortal 
man's  strength.  He  must  have  a  rest  if 
it  is  possible  for  him,  and  his  friends  must 
now  keep  up  the  school  by  redoubled  ef 
forts.  Ah  me!  There  is  so  much  to  be 
done  in  this  world !  I  wish  I  were  young 
er  or  a  millionaire." 

And  yet  again:  "  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
sending  General  Armstrong  at  Christmas, 
with  my  annual  subscription,  one  thou 
sand  dollars  which  a  friend  placed  in  my 
hand.  I  wish  our  friend  could  be  relieved 
from  the  task  of  raising  money  by  a  hun 
dred  such  donations." 

The  choice  of  the  early  breakfast  hour 
for  his  visits  was  his  own  idea.  He  was 


THE   HOUSE   AT   HAMPTON^  FA,LLS 

Wh'Mier  on  tie  bakorty    ^    }  "^  ^ 


glad  to  hit  upon  a  moment  which  was 
not  subject  to  interruptions,  one  when  he 
could  talk  at  his  ease  of  books  and  men. 
These  visits  were  always  a  surprise.  He 
liked  to  be  abroad  in  good  season,  and 
had  rarely  missed  seeing  the  sun  rise  in 
forty  years.  He  knew,  too,  that  we  were 
not  late  people,  and  that  his  visits  could 
never  be  untimely.  Occasionally,  with 
the  various  evening  engagements  of  a 
city,  we  were  not  altogether  fit  to  receive 
him,  but  it  was  a  pleasure  to  hear  his 
punctual  ring,  and  to  know  that  we  should 
find  him  in  the  library  by  the  iire.  He 
was  himself  a  bad  sleeper,  seldom,  as  he 
said,  putting  a  solid  bar  of  sleep  between 
day  and  day,  and  therefore  often  early 
abroad  to  question  the  secrets  of  the  dawn. 
We  owe  much  of  the  intimate  friendship 
of  our  life  to  these  morning  hours  spent 
in  private,  uninterrupted  talk. 

"I  have  lately  felt  great  sympathy  with 

,"  he  said  one  morning,  "for  I  have 

been  kept  awake  one  hundred  and  twenty 


74 


hours— an  experience  I  should  not  care  to 
try  again." 

One  of  Whittier's  summer  pleasures, 
in  which  he  occasionally  indulged  him 
self,  was  a  visit  to  the  Isles  of  Shoals. 
He  loved  to  see  his  friend  Celia  Thaxter 
in  her  island  home,  and  he  loved  the  free 
dom  of  a  large  hotel.  He  liked  to  make 
arrangements  with  a  group  of  his  more 
particular  friends  to  meet  him  there;  and 
when  he  was  well  enough  to  leave  his 
room,  he  might  be  seen  in  some  carefully 
chosen  corner  of  the  great  piazzas,  shady 
or  sunny,  as  the  day  invited  him,  enjoying 
the  keenest  happiness  in  the  voluntary  so 
ciety  and  conversation  of  those  dear  to  him. 
Occasionally  he  would  pass  whole  days 
in  Celia  Thaxter's  parlor,  watching  her 
at  her  painting  in  the  window,  and  listen 
ing  to  the  conversation  around  him.  He 
wished  to  hear  and  know  what  interested 
others.  He  liked  nothing  better,  he  once 
said,  than  going  into  the  "store"  in  the 


old  days  at  Amesbury,  when  it  was  a  com 
mon  centre,  almost  serving  the  purpose 
of  what  a  club  may  be  in  these  later  days, 
and  sitting  upon  a  barrel  to  hear  "folks 
talk."  The  men  there  did  not  know  much 
about  his  poetry,  but  they  understood  his 
politics,  and  he  was  able  to  put  in  many 
a  word  to  turn  the  vote  of  the  town.  In 
Celia  Thaxter's  parlor  he  found  a  differ 
ent  company,  but  his  relations  to  the  peo 
ple  who  frequented  that  delightful  place 
were  practically  the  same.  He  wished  to 
understand  their  point  of  view,  if  pos 
sible,  and  then,  if  he  could  find  opportu 
nity,  he  would  help  them  to  a  higher  stand 
point. 

I  remember  one  season  in  particular, 
when  the  idle  talk  of  idle  people  had  been 
drifting  in  and  out  during  the  day,  while 
he  sat  patiently  on  in  the  corner  of  the 
pretty  room.  Mrs.  Thaxter  was  steadily 
at  work  at  her  table,  yet  always  hospita 
ble,  losing  sight  of  no  cloud  or  shadow  or 
sudden  gleam  of  glory  in  the  landscape, 


TO 


and  pointing  the  talk  often  with  keen 
wit.  Nevertheless,  the  idleness  of  it  all 
palled  upon  him.  It  was  Sunday,  too, 
and  he  longed  for  something  which  would 
move  us  to  "higher  levels."  Suddenly, 
as  if  the  idea  had  struck  him  like  an  in 
spiration,  he  rose,  and  taking  a  volume  of 
Emerson  from  the  little  library,  he  opened 
to  one  of  the  discourses,  and  handing  it 
to  Celia  Thaxter,  said: 

"  Eead  that  aloud,  will  thee?  I  think 
we  should  all  like  to  hear  it." 

After  she  ended  he  took  up  the  thread 
of  the  discourse,  and  talked  long  and  ear 
nestly  upon  the  beauty  and  necessity  of 
worship — a  necessity  consequent  upon  the 
nature  of  man,  upon  his  own  weakness, 
and  his  consciousness  of  the  Divine  Spirit 
within  him.  His  whole  heart  was  stirred, 
and  he  poured  himself  out  towards  us  as 
if  he  longed,  like  the  prophet  of  old,  to 
breathe  a  new  life  into  us.  I  could  see 
that  he  reproached  himself  for  not  having 
spoken  out  in  this  way  before,  but  his 


77 


enfranchised  spirit  took  only  a  stronger 
flight  for  the  delay. 

I  have  never  heard  of  Whittier's  speak 
ing  in  the  meeting-house,  although  he  was 
doubtless  often  "moved"  to  do  so,  but  to 
us  who  heard  him  on  that  day  he  became 
more  than  ever  a  light  unto  our  feet.  It 
was  not  an  easy  thing  to  do  to  stern  the 
accustomed  current  of  life  in  this  way, 
and  it  is  a  deed  only  possible  to  those 
who,  in  the  Bible  phrase,  "walk  with 
God." 

Such  an  unusual  effort  was  not  with 
out  its  consequences.  It  was  followed 
by  a  severe  headache,  and  he  was  hardly 
seen  abroad  again  during  his  stay. 

We  heard  from  him  again,  shortly  af 
ter,  under  the  shadow  of  the  great  hills 
where  he  always  passed  a  part  of  every 
year.  He  loved  them,  and  wrote  elo 
quently  of  the  loveliness  of  nature  at  Os- 
sipee:  "the  Bear  Camp  winding  down" 
the  long  green  valley  close  by  the 
door,  the  long  Sandwich  and  Waterville 


78 


ranges,  and  Chocorua  filling  up  the  hori 
zon  from  west  to  north-east. 

The  frequent  loneliness  of  his  life  often 
found  expression.  Once  he  says: 

"I  wish  I  could  feel  that  I  deserved  a 
tithe  even  of  the  kind  things  said  of  me 
by  my  personal  friends.  If  one  could 
but  be  as  easily  as  preach!  The  confes 
sion  of  poor  Burns  might,  I  fear,  be  made 
of  the  best  of  us: 

" '  God  knows  I'm  no  the  thing  I  would  be, 
Nor  am  I  even  the  thing  I  could  be.' 

And  yet  I  am  thankful  every  day  of 
my  life  that  God  has  put  it  into  the  hearts 
of  so  many  whom  I  love  and  honor  and 
reverence  to  send  me  so  many  messages 
of  good-will  and  kindness.  It  is  an  un 
speakable  comfort  in  the  lonely  and  dark 
ening  afternoon  of  life.  Indeed,  I  can 
never  feel  quite  alone  so  long  as  I  know 
that  all  about  me  are  those  who  turn  to 
me  with  friendly  interest,  and,  strange  to 
say,  with  gratitude.  A  sense  of  lack  of 


79 


desert  on  my  part  is  a  drawback,  of  course ; 
but  then,  I  say  to  myself,  if  my  friends 
judge  me  by  my  aim  and  desire,  and  not 
by  my  poor  performance,  it  may  be  all 
right  and  just." 

The  painful  solitude  of  his  life  after  his 
dear  niece's  marriage  was  softened  when 
he  went  to  live  with  his  cousins  at  Oak 
Knoll,  in  Danvers,  a  pleasant  country- 
seat,  sheltered  and  suited  to  his  needs. 

Of  this  place  Mrs.  Spofford  says,  in  a 
delightful  biographical  paper:  "The  es 
tate  of  Oak  Knoll  is  one  of  some  histor 
ical  associations,  as  here  once  lived  the 
Rev.  George  Burroughs,  the  only  clergy 
man  in  the  annals  of  Salem  witchcraft 
who  was  hung  for  dark  dealings,  Daii- 
vers  having  originally  been  a  part  of  the 
town  of  Salem,  where  witchcraft  came  to 
a  blaze,  and  was  stamped  out  of  exist 
ence.  .  .  .  The  only  relic  on  the  place  of 
its  tragedy  is  the  well  of  the  Burroughs' 
house,  which  is  still  in  the  hay-field,  and 
over  which  is  the  resting-place  of  the 


sounding-board  of  the  pulpit  in  the 
church  where  the  witches  were  tried." 

At  Danvers  he  was  able  to  enjoy  the 
free  open  air.  He  loved  to  sit  under  the 
fine  trees  which  distinguished  the  lawn, 
to  play  with  the  dogs,  and  wander  about 
unmolested  until  lie  was  tired.  The  la 
dies  of  the  house  exerted  themselves  to 
give  him  perfect  freedom  and  the  tender- 
est  care.  The  daughter  became  his  play 
mate,  and  she  never  quite  grew  up,  in  his 
estimation.  She  was  his  lively  and  lov 
ing  companion.  Writing  from  Danvers, 
one  December,  he  says,  "What  with  the 
child,  and  the  dogs,  and  Rip  Van  Winkle, 
the  cat,  and  a  tame  gray  squirrel  who 
hunts  our  pockets  for  nuts,  we  contrive  to 
get  through  the  short  dark  days." 

Again:  "I  am  thankful  that  February 
has  come,  and  that  the  sun  is  getting 
high  on  his  northern  journey.  The  past 
month  has  been  trying  to  flesh  and  spirit. 
...  I  am  afraid  my  letter  has  a  com 
plaining  tone,  and  I  am  rather  ashamed 


81 


of  it,  and  shall  be  more  so  when  my  head 
is  less  out  of  order.  .  .  .  There  are  two  gray 
squirrels  playing  in  my  room.  Phoebe 
calls  them  Deacon  Josiah  and  his  wife 
Philury,  after  Eose  Terry  Cooke's  story 
of  the  minister's  'week  of  works'  in  the 
place  of  a  '  week  of  prayer.'  " 

He  showed  more  physical  vitality  after 
•he  went  to  Danvers,  and  his  notes  evince 
a  wide  interest  in  matters  private  and 
public  outside  his  own  library  life.  He 
still  went  to  Portland  to  see  his  niece  and 
her  husband  whenever  he  was  able,  and 
now  and  then  to  Boston  also.  But  Phila 
delphia  at  the  time  of  the  Centennial  was 
not  to  be  thought  of.  "I  sent  my  hymn," 
he  wrote  from  Amesbury  in  1876,  "with 
many  misgivings,  and  am  glad  it  was  so 
well  received.  I  think  I  should  like  to 
have  heard  the  music,  but  probably  I 
should  not  have  understood.  The  gods 
have  made  me  most  unmusical." 

"I  have  just  got  J.  T.  F.'s  charming 
little  book  of  'Barry  Cornwall  and  His 


82 


Friends. '  It  is  a  most  companionable  vol 
ume,  and  will  give  rare  pleasure  to  thou 
sands.  ...  I  write  in  the  midst  of  our 
Quaker  quarterly  meeting,  and  our  house 
has  been  overrun  for  three  days.  We 
had  twelve  to  dine  to-day;  they  have  now 
gone  to  meeting,  but  I  am  too  tired  for 
preaching. 

"I  don't  expect  to  visit  Philadelphia. 
The  very  thought  of  that  Ezekiel's  vision 
of  machinery  and  the  nightmare  confu 
sion  of  the  world's  curiosity  shop  appalls 
me.  I  shall  not  venture." 

He  was  full  of  excellent  resolutions 
about  going  often  to  Boston,  but  he  never 
could  make  a  home  there.  "  I  see  a  great 
many  more  things  in  the  city  than  thee 
does,"  he  would  say.  "because  I  go  to 
town  so  seldom.  The  shop- windows  are  a 
delight  to  me,  and  everything  and  every 
body  is  novel  and  interesting.  I  don't 
need  to  go  to  the  theatre.  I  have  more 
theatre  than  I  can  take  in  every  time  I 
walk  out." 


83 


No  sketch  of  Whittier,  however  slight, 
should  omit  mention  of  his  friendship 
for  Bayard  Taylor.  Their  Quaker  parent 
age  helped  to  bring  the  two  poets  into 
communion ;  and  although  Taylor  was  so 
much  the  younger  and  more  vigorous 
man,  Whittier  was  also  to  see  him  pass, 
and  to  mourn  his  loss.  He  took  a  deep 
interest  in  his  literary  advancement,  and 
considered  "  Lars  "  his  finest  poem.  Cer 
tainly  no  one  knew  Taylor's  work  better, 
or  brought  a  deeper  sympathy  into  his 
reading  of  it.  "I  love  him  too  well  to 
be  a  critic  of  his  verse,"  he  says,  in  one 
of  his  letters.  "But  what  a  brave  worker 
he  was!1' 

The  reading  of  good  books  was,  very 
late  in  life,  as  it  had  been  very  early,  his 
chief  pleasure.  His  travels,  his  romance, 
his  friendships,  were  indulged  in  chiefly  by 
proxy  of  the  printed  page.  "I  felt  very 
near  Dr.  Mulford  through  his  writings," 
he  said.  "He  was  the  strongest  thinker 
of  our  time,  and  he  thought  in  the  right 


84 


direction.  'The  Republic  of  God'  is  in 
tellectually  greater  than  St.  Augustine's 
'City  of  God,'  and  infinitely  nearer  the 
Christian  ideal." 

"That  must  be  a  shrewd  zephyr," 
Charles  Lamb  used  to  say,  speaking  of  bis 
Gentle  Giantess,  "that  can  escape  her." 
And  so  we  may  say  of  Whittier  and  a 
book.  "  Has  thee  seen  the  new  book  by 
the  author  of  '  Mr.  Isaacs  V "  he  asked 
(having  sent  me  "  Mr.  Isaacs  "  as  soon  as  it 
appeared,  lest  I  should  miss  reading  so 
novel  and  good  a  story).  In  the  same 
breath  he  adds:  "I  have  been  reading 
4 The  Freedom  of  Faith,'  by  the  author 
of  'On  the  Threshold,'  just  published  by 
Hough  ton  &  Co.  It  is  refreshing  and 
tonic  as  the  north-west  wind.  The  writer 
is  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  new  departure 
from  ultra-Calvinism.  Thank  thee  just 
here  for  the  pleasure  of  reading  Annie 
Keary's  biography.  What  a  white,  beau 
tiful  soul!  Her  views  of  the  mission  of 
Spiritualism  seem  very  much  like 's. 


85 


I  do  not  know  when  I  have  read  a  more 
restful,  helpful  book. 

"How  good  Longfellow's  poem  is!  A 
little  sad,  but  full  of  'sweetness  and 
light.'  Emerson,  Longfellow,  Holmes, 
and  myself  are  all  getting  to  be  old  fel 
lows,  and  that  swan-song  might  serve  for 
us  all.  '  We  who  are  about  to  die.'  God 
help  us  all !  I  don't  care  for  fame,  and 
have  no  solicitude  about  the  verdicts  of 
posterity. 

"  '  When  the  grass  is  green  above  us, 

And  they  who  know  us  and  who  love  us 
Are  sleeping  by  our  side, 

XWill  it  avail  us  aught  that  men 
Tell  the  world  with  lip  and  pen 
That  we  have  lived  and  died?1 

"What  we  are  will  then  be  more  im 
portant  than  what  we  have  done  or  said 
in  prose  or  rhyme,  or  what  folks  that  we 
never  saw  or  heard  of  think  of  us." 

Later  he  describes  himself  as  listening 
to  the  ' '  Life  of  Mrs.  Sto we. "  "  It  is  a  satis- 


fyingbook,  a  model  biography,  or,  rather, 
autobiography,  for  dear  Mrs.  Stowe  speaks 
all  through  it.  Dr.  Holmes's  letters  re 
veal  him  as  he  is — wise,  generous,  chival 
rous.  Witness  the  kindliness  and  delicate 
sympathy  of  his  letters  during  the  Lord 
Byron  trouble.  .  .  .  Miss  W.  has  read  us 
some  of  Howells's  '  Hazard  of  New  Fort 
unes.'  It  strikes  me  that  it  is  a  strong 
book.  That  indomitable  old  German, 
Linden — that  saint  of  the  rather  godless 
sect  of  dynamiters  and  anarchists  —  is  a 
grand  figure;  one  can't  help  loving  him." 
The  poet's  notes  and  letters  are  full  of 
passages  showing  how  closely  he  followed 
public  affairs.  "If  I  were  not  sick,  and 
to-morrow  were  not  election -day,"  he 
says,  "  I  should  go  to  Boston.  I  hope  to 
be  there  in  a  few  days,  at  any  rate.  You 
must  'vote  early  and  often,'  and  elect 
Hooper.  Here  we  are  having  Marry at's 
triangular  duel  acted  over  by  our  three 
candidates.  I  wish  they  were  all  car 
pet-bagging  among  the  Ku-kluxes.  It 


87 


wouldn't  hurt  us  to  go  without  a  repre 
sentative  until  we  can  raise  one  of  our 
own.".  .  . 

And  again:  "I  am  somewhat  disap 
pointed  by  the  vote  on  the  suffrage  ques 
tion.  It  should  be  a  lesson  to  us  not  to 
trust  to  political  platforms.  A  great 
many  Republicans  declined  to  vote  for  it 
or  against  it.  They  thought  the  leaders 
of  the  suffrage  movement  had  thrown 
themselves  into  the  hands  of  Butler  and 
the  Democrats.  However,  it  is  only  one 
of  those  set-backs  which  all  reforms  must 
have  —  temporary,  but  rather  discourag- 
ing." 

"I  worked  hard  in  our  town,  and  we 
made  a  gain  of  nearly  one  hundred  votes 
over  last  year." 

"I  am  happy,"  he  says  later,  "in  the 
result  of  the  election — thankful  that  the 

State  has  sat  down  heavily  on  .  I 

never  thought  of  taking  an  active  inter 
est  in  politics  this  year,  but  I  could  not 
help  it  when  the  fight  began." 


And  still  later  in  life:  "I  am  glad  of 
the  grand  overturn  in  Boston,  and  the 
courage  of  the  women  voters.  How  did 
it  seem  to  elbow  thy  way  to  the  polls 
through  throngs  of  men  folk?" 

Whit  tier  never  relinquished  his  house 
at  Amesbury,  where  his  kind  friends, 
Judge  Gate  and  his  wife,  always  made 
him  feel  at  home.  As  the  end  of  his  life 
drew  near,  it  was  easy  to  see  that  the  vil 
lage  home  where  his  mother  and  his  sis 
ter  lived  and  died  was  the  place  he  chiefly 
loved;  but  he  was  more  inaccessible  to 
his  friends  in  Amesbury,  and  the  inter 
ruptions  of  a  fast-growing  factory  town 
were  sometimes  less  agreeable  to  him 
than  the  country  life  at  Oak  Knoll.  He 
was  a  great  disbeliever  in  too  much  soli 
tude,  however,  and  used  to  say,  "The 
necessary  solitude  of  the  human  soul 
is  enough;  it  is  surprising  how  great  \ 
that  is." 

Once  only  he  expresses  this  preference 
for  the  dear  old  village  home  in  his  let- 


89 


ters.  "I  have  been  at  Amesbury  for  a 
fortnight.  Somehow  I  seem  nearer  to 
my  mother  and  sister;  the  very  walls  of 
the  rooms  seem  to  have  become  sensitive 
to  the  photographs  of  unseen  presences." 

Towards  the  end  of  his  days,  however, 
he  spent  more  and  more  time  with  his 
beloved  cousins  Gertrude  and  Joseph 
Cartland,  whose  interests  and  aims  in 
life  were  so  close  to  his  own. 

The  habit  of  going  to  the  White  Mount 
ains  in  their  company  for  a  few  weeks 
during  the  heat  of  summer  was  a  fixed 
one.  He  grew  to  love  Asquam,  with  its 
hills  and  lakes,  almost  better  than  any 
other  place  for  this  sojourn.  It  was 
there  he  loved  to  beckon  his  friends  to 
join  him.  "Do  come,  if  possible,"  he 
would  write.  "The  years  speed  on;  it 
will  soon  be  too  late.  I  long  to  look  on 
your  dear  faces  once  more." 

His  deafness  began  to  preclude  general 
conversation  ;  but  he  delighted  in  getting 
off  under  the  pine-trees  in  the  warm  af- 


90 


ternoons,  or  into  a  quiet  room  up-stairs 
at  twilight,  and  talking  until  bedtime. 
He  described  to  us,  during  one  visit,  his 
first  stay  among  the  hills.  His  parents 
took  him  where  he  could  see  the  great 
wooded  slope  of  Agamenticus.  As  he 
looked  up  and  gazed  with  awe  at  the 
solemn  sight,  a  cloud  drooped,  and  hung 
suspended  as  it  were  from  one  point,  and 
filled  his  soul  with  astonishment.  He  had 
never  forgotten  it.  He  said  nothing  at 
the  time,  but  this  cloud  hanging  from  the 
breast  of  the  hill  filled  his  boyish  mind 
with  a  mighty  wonder,  which  had  never 
faded  away. 

Notwithstanding  his  strong  feeling  for 
Amesbury,  and  his  presence  there  always 
at  "quarterly  meeting,"  he  found  him 
self  increasingly  comfortable  at  Dan- 
vers  and  happy  in  the  companionship  of 
his  devoted  relatives.  Something  nearer 
"  picturesqueness "  and  "the  beautiful" 
came  to  please  the  sense  and  to  soothe  the 
spirit  at  Oak  Knoll.  He  did  not  often 


make  record  in  his  letters  of  these  things; 
but  once  he  speaks  charmingly  of  the 
young  girl  in  a  red  cloak,  on  horseback, 
with  the  dog  at  her  side,  scampering  over 
the  lawn  and  brushing  under  the  sloping 
branches  of  the  trees.  The  sunset  of  his 
life  burned  slowly  down,  yet  in  spite  of 
illness  and  loss  of  power,  he  possessed  his 
soul  in  patience.  After  a  period  when  he 
felt  unable  to  write,  he  revived  and  sent 
a  letter,  in  which  he  spoke  as  follows  of 
a  poem  which  had  been  sent  for  his  revi 
sion:  "The  poem  is  solemn  and  tender; 
it  is  as  if  a  wind  from  the  Unseen  World 
blew  over  it,  in  which  the  voice  of  sorrow 
is  sweeter  than  that  of  gladness — a  holy 
fear  mingled  with  holier  hope.  For  my 
self,  my  hope  is  always  associated  with 
dread,  like  the  shining  of  a  star  through 
mist.  I  feel,  indeed,  that  Love  is  vic 
torious,  that  there  is  no  dark  it  cannot 
light,  no  depth  it  cannot  reach ;  but  I  im 
agine  that  between  the  Seen  and  the  Un 
seen  there  is  a  sort  of  neutral  ground,  a 


land  of  shadow  and  mystery,  of  strange 
voices  and  undistinguished  forms.  There 
are  some,  as  Charles  Lamb  says,  l  who 
stalk  into  futurity  on  stilts,'  without  awe 
or  self-distrust.  But  I  can  only  repeat 
the  words  of  the  poem  before  me."  .  .  . 

One  of  the  last,  perhaps  the  very  last 
visit  he  made  to  his  friends  in  Boston  was 
in  the  beautiful  autumn  weather.  The 
familiar  faces  he  hoped  to  find  were  ab 
sent.  He  arrived  without  warning,  and 
the  very  loveliness  of  the  atmosphere 
which  made  it  possible  for  him  to  travel 
had  tempted  younger  people  out  among 
the  falling  leaves.  He  was  disappointed, 
and  soon  after  sent  these  verses  to  re 
hearse  his  experience: 

"I  stood  within  the  vestibule 

Whose  granite  steps  I  knew  so  well, 
While  through  the  empty  rooms  the  bell 
Responded  to  my  eager  pull. 

"I  listened  while  the  bell  once  more 

Rang  through  the  void,  deserted  hall ; 


I  heard  no  voice,  nor  light  foot- fall, 
And  turned  me  sadly  from  the  door. 

"  Though  fair  was  Autumn's  dreamy  day, 
And  fair  the  wood-paths  carpeted 
With  fallen  leaves  of  gold  and  red, 
I  missed  a  dearer  sight  than  they. 

"I  missed  the  love-transfigured  face, 
The  glad,  sweet  smile  so  dear  to  me, 
The  clasp  of  greeting  warm  and  free : 
What  had  the  round  world  in  their  place  ? 

"0  friend,  whose  generous  love  has  made 
My  last  days  best,  my  good  intent 
Accept,  and  let'  the  call  I  meant 
Be  with  your  corning  doubly  paid." 

But  even  this  journey  was  be}rond  his 
strength.  He  wrote:  "Coming  back 
from  Boston  in  a  crowded  car,  a  window 
was  opened  just  behind  me  and  another 
directly  opposite,  and,  in  consequence,  I 
took  a  bad  cold,  and  am  losing  much  of 
this  goodly  autumnal  spectacle.  But  Oak 
Knoll  woods  were  never,  I  think,  so  beau 
tiful  before." 


94 


In  future  his  friends  were  to  seek  him; 
he  could  go  no  more  to  them ;  the  autumn 
had  indeed  set  in. 

Now  began  a  series  of  birthday  celebra 
tions,  which  were  blessings  not  unmixed 
in  his  cup  of  life.  He  was  in  the  habit 
of  writing  a  brief  note  of  remembrance 
on  these  anniversaries;  in  one  of  which, 
after  confessing  to  "a  feeling  of  sadness 
and  loneliness,"  he  turns  to  the  Emerson. 
Calendar,  and  says,  "I  found  for  the 
day  some  lines  from  his  '  World  Soul  '- 

" '  Love  wakes  anew  this  throbbing  heart, 

And  we  are  never  old; 
Over  the  winter  glaciers 

I  see  the  summer  glow, 
And  through  the  wild  piled  snow-drift 

The  warm  rose-buds  blow.' 

Reading  them,  I  took  heart." 

On  another  occasion  he  says:  "In  the 
intervals  of  visitation  on  that  day  my 
thoughts  were  with  dear  friends  who 
have  passed  from  us  ;  among  whom,  I 
need  not  say,  was  thy  dearest  friend. 


95 


How  vividly  the  beautiful  mornings  with 
you  were  recalled !  Then  I  wondered  at 
my  age,  and  if  it  was  possible  that  I  was 
the  little  boy  on  the  old  Haverhill  farm, 
unknown,  and  knowing  nobody  beyond 
my  home  horizon.  I  could  not  quite 
make  the  connection  of  the  white-haired 
man  with  the  black-locked  boy.  I  could 
not  help  a  feeling  of  loneliness,  thinking 
of  having  outlived  many  of  my  life-com 
panions;  but  I  was  still  grateful  to  God 
that  I  had  not  outlived  my  love  for  them 
and  for  those  still  living.  Among  the 
many  tokens  of  good-will  from  all  parts 
of  the  country  and  beyond  the  sea,  there 
were  some  curious  and  amazing  missives. 
One  Southern  woman  took  the  occasion 
to  include  me  in  her  curse  of  the  '  mean, 
hateful  Yankees.'  To  offset  this,  I  had 
a  telegram  from  the  Southern  Forestry 
Congress  assembled  in  Florida,  signed  by 
president  and  secretary,  informing  me 
that  '  In  remembrance  of  your  birthday, 
we  have  planted  a  live-oak  tree  to  your 


memory,  which,  like   the    leaves    of  the 
tree,  will  be  forever  green.'  " 

Birthdays,  on  the  whole,  in  the  face  of 
much  sadness,  brought  him  also  much  that 
was  agreeable  and  delightful  in  remem 
brance.  One  old  friend  always  gave  him 
great  pleasure  by  sending  a  huge  basket 
of  gilded  wicker,  in  which  were  placed 
fruits  of  every  variety  from  all  quarters 
of  the  globe,  and  covered  with  rare  flow 
ers  and  ferns.  In  this  way  he  visited 
the  gardens  of  the  Orient,  and  could  see 
in  his  imagination  the  valleys  of  Napa 
and  of  Shiraz.  On  the  occasion  of  a  din 
ner  given  him  at  the  Brunswick. Hotel, 
on  his  seventieth  birthday,  he  wrote:  "I 
missed  my  friend.  In  the  midst  of  so 
much  congratulation,  I  do  not  forget  his 
earlier  appreciation  and  encouragement, 
and  every  kind  word  which  assured  and 
cheered  me  when  the  great  public  failed 
to  recognize  me.  I  dare  not  tell  thee  for 
fear  of  seeming  to  exaggerate  -how  much 
his  words  have  been  to  me." 


Thus  the  long  years  and  the  long  days 
passed  on  with  scarcely  perceptible  dimi 
nution  of  interest  in  the  affairs  of  this 
world.  UI  am  sorry  to  find  that  the 
hard  winter  has  destroyed  some  hand 
some  spruces  I  planted  eight  years  ago," 
he  wrote  one  May  day;  "they  had 
grown  to  be  fine  trees.  Though  rather 
late  for  me,  I  shall  plant  others  in  their 
places;  for  I  remember  the  advice  of  the 
old  Laird  of  Dumbiedikes  to  his  son  Jock : 
'  When  ye  hae  naething  better  to  do,  ye 
can  be  aye  sticking  in  a  tree ;  it  '11  aye 
be  gro win'  when  ye  are  sleepin  g. '  There  is 
an  ash-tree  growing  here  that  my  mother 
planted  with  her  own  hands  at  threescore 
and  ten.  What  agnostic  folly  to  think  that 
tree  has  outlived  her  who  planted  it!" 

The  lines  of  Whittier's  life  stretched 
"between  heaven  and  home"  during  the 
long  period  of  eighty-four  years.  A  host 
of  friends,  friends  of  the  spirit,  were,  as 
we  have  seen,  forever  clustering  around 
him ;  and  what  a  glorious  company  it 


was!  Follen,  Shipley,  Chalkley,  Lucy 
Hooper,  Joseph  Sturge,  Ch aiming1,  Lydia 
Maria  Child,  his  sister  Elizabeth — a  shin 
ing  cloud  too  numerous  to  mention ;  the 
inciters  of  his  poems  and  the  companions 
of  his  fireside.  In  the  silence  of  his 
country  home  their  memories  clustered 
about  him  and  filled  his  heart  with  joy. 

"He  loved  the  good  and  wise,  but  found 

His  human  heart  to  all  akin 
Who  met  him  on  the  common  ground 
Of  suffering  and  of  sin." 

His  "Home  Ballads"  grew  out  of  this 
very  power  of  clinging  to  the  same  places 
and  the  old  loves,  and  what  an  incompar 
able  group  they  make!'  "Telling  the 
Bees,"  "Skipper  Ireson's  Ride,"  "My 
Playmate,"  "In  School  Days,"  are  suffi 
cient  in  themselves  to  set  the  seal  to  his 
great  fame. 

As  a  traveller,  too,  he  is  unrivalled, 
giving  us,  without  leaving  his  own  gar 
den,  the  fine  fruit  of  foreign  lands.  In 


reading  his  poems  of  the  East,  it  is  diffi 
cult  to  believe  that  he  never  saw  Pales 
tine,  nor  Ceylon,  nor  India;  and  the  won 
der  is  no  less  when  he  writes  of  our  own 
wide  country.  Indeed,  the  vividness  of 
his  poems  about  the  slaves  at  St.  Helena's 
Island  and  elsewhere  make  them  among 
the  finest  of  all  his  local  poems.  One 
called  "The  Pass  of  the  Sierra"  may  ea 
sily  bear  the  palm  among  much  descrip 
tive  writing. 

He  watched  over  his  last  remaining 
brother  during  a  long  illness  and  death, 
during  the  autumn  and  winter  of  1882 
and  '83  in  Boston.  The  family  all  left 
Oak  Knoll  and  came  to  be  with  him  at  a 
hotel,  whence  he  could  make  frequent 
visits  to  his  brother's  bedside;  but  the 
unwonted  experience  of  passing  several 
months  in  town,  and  the  wearing  mis 
sion  which  brought  him  there,  told  seri 
ously  upon  his  health,  and  caused  well- 
grounded  anxiety  as  to  the  result.  The 


100 


day  after  the  last  services  had  been  per 
formed  he  wrote  to  a  friend:  "  Indeed,  it 
was  a  great  comfort  to  sit  beside  you  and 
to  feel  that  if  another  beloved  one  had 
passed  into  the  new  life  beyond  sight 
and  hearing,  the  warm  hearts  of  loved 
friends  were  beating  close  to  my  own. 
You  do  not  know  how  grateful  it  was  to 
me.  Dr.  Clarke's  presence  and  words 
were  full  of  comfort.  My  brother  did 
not  approve  of  a  display  of  flowers,  but 
he  loved  violets,  and  your  simple  flowers 
were  laid  in  his  hand.  .  .  .  Give  my  love 
to  S.,  and  kiss  the  dear  child  for  me." 

It  was  not,  however,  until  1890  that  we 
could  really  feel  he  had  left  the  years  of 
active  service  and  of  intellectual  achieve 
ment  as  things  of  the  past.  He  was  shut 
out  from  much  that  gave  him  pleasure, 
but  the  spirit  which  animated  the  still 
breathing  frame,  though  waiting  and  at 
times  longing  for  larger  opportunity, 
seemed  to  us  like  a  loving  sentinel,  cov 
ering  his  dear  ones  as  with  a  shield,  and 


watching*  over  the  needs  of  'humanity. J 
The  advance  of  the  colored  people,  the 
claims  of  the  Indians  and  their  wrongs, 
opportunities  for  women,  statesmen,  and 
politicians,  the  private  joys  and  sorrows 
of  those  dear  to  him,  were  all  present  and 
kept  alive,  though  in  the  silence  of  his 
breast. 

The  end  came,  the  door  opened  while 
he  was  staying  with  the  relative  of  an 
old  friend  at  Hampton  Falls,  in  New 
Hampshire— that  saintly  woman  whom 
we  associate  with  one  of  the  most  spir 
itual  and  beautiful  of  his  poems,  "A 
Friend's  Burial."  After  a  serious  illness 
in  the  winter  of  1892  he  was  almost  too 
frail  for  any  summer  journeying,  but 
with  his  usual  wisdom  and  instinctive 
turning  of  the  heart  towards  old  famil 
iar  places,  he  thought  of  this  hospitable 
house  where  he  seemed  to  gain  strength, 
and  where  he  found  much  happiness  and 
the  quietness  that  he  loved.  His  last  ill 
ness  was  brief;  he  was  ministered  to  by 


i     102 


'tlibse  who 'stood  nearest  him.  And  thus 
the  waves  of  time  passed  over  him  and 
swept  him  from  our  sight. 

It  is  a  pleasure  now  to  recall  many  a 
beautiful  scene  in  summer  afternoons, 
under  the  trees  at  Danvers,  when  his 
spirit  animated  the  air  and  made  the 
landscape  shine  with  a  radiance  not  its 
own.  Such  memories  serve  to  keep  the 
whole  world  beautiful  wherein  he  moved, 
and  add  to  his  poetry  a  sense  of  presence 
and  a  living  light. 

Old  age  appears  to  every  other  stage  of 
human  existence  as  a  most  undesirable 
state.  We  look  upon  its  approaches  and 
its  ravages  with  alarm.  Death  itself  is 
far  less  dreadful,  and  "the  low  door," 
if  it  will  only  open  quickly,  brings  little 
fear  to  the  thoughtful  mind.  But  the 
mystery  of  decadence,  the  long  sunset- 
ting,  the  loss  of  power — what  do  they 
mean?  The  Latin  word  saga,  from  which 
the  French  get  la  sagesse,  and  we  "the 
sage,"  gives  us  a  hint  of  what  we  do  not 


103 


always  understand — the  spiritual  beauty 
and  the  significance  even  of  loss  in  age. 

Whittier,  wearing  his  silver  crown, 
brought  the  antique  word  into  use  again, 
and  filled  it  with  fresh  meaning  for  mod 
ern  men. 


THE   END 


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